White Lies
by Feyna
Summary: After being seriously injured, Canada struggles with his resolution of keeping America from a truth that would only hurt him. But America isn't so easy to fool, and with other nations getting involved as well, Canada's well-meant lie might end up worsening the situation. (Sequel of "Overheated")
1. Chapter 1

**Notes :** A few readers asked for it, and honestly, I had left that particular issue unresolved because I already had a half-idea to explore it later, so here is the sequel of _Overheated_.  
To new readers: I don't think that having read _Overheated_ first is strictly necessary, but you might miss a few points if you haven't. Feel free to ask if anything is unclear.

Now, moving to this story: as you might have guessed from the summary, **it's going to include some violence in the beginning**. I don't think it's graphic, but then again, I'm not really sure about what can be considered graphic or not. Consider yourself warned.

As usual, there are no romantic connotations.

 **Disclaimer :** I don't own anything, nor do I get any profit for writing this. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, credits for the cover art go to kenlo (pixiv id=2892327).

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

 _'A few steps. It's just a few steps. You can make it.'_

Canada gritted his teeth against the pain, forcing his throbbing limbs to move. He stumbled, leaning against the wall.

When he rounded the corner, the boy was rewarded with the blurred image of his door's room. The view almost brought tears to his eyes – yet, it still looked miles away.

' _Just a few steps,'_ he repeated in his mind, the endless litany that had accompanied his trek.

Matthew shifted his weight. His injured ankle screamed in pain, black spots filled his vision. Everything felt oddly detached, unreal. His ears were ringing. In the last, still logical corner of his mind, Matthew knew that he was about to faint.

But he couldn't afford it.

Bracing himself against the wall, Matthew kept limping forward, his good arm wrapped around his midsection and pain flaring up in every inch of his body at each movement.

Finally, after what felt like centuries, Matthew found himself slumping against the door. When he reached forward, the smooth, cold metal of the handle felt as soft as silk, the most welcome sensation he could ever imagine.

 _'That's it. Almost done.'_

Leaning his weight against the door, the boy managed to open it and stumbled inside, mentally blessing the modern movement-sensitive lighting of the room. The big bed against the opposite wall welcomed him, the soft mattress gently rearranging itself around him when Matthew all but let himself fall on it. The movement jarred his injured ribs, eliciting a small moan from his lips as the pain spiked up.

Matthew wanted nothing more than let himself sink into the oblivion of unconsciousness, but he was aware that he couldn't afford it. Not yet.

Holding back another pained moan, the boy managed to force himself to a sitting position and kicked off his shoes, whimpering when a stab of pain went through his right ankle. Even without bending closer, he could see that it had swollen at least three times its size, the skin almost completely covered in red and deep purple patches. Hopefully, it wasn't broken, but there was no way he could rule out at least a bad sprain.

 _'Ice. I need some ice.'_

Matthew didn't know where to find it, not without calling the hotel staff, which was the last thing he wanted – he should have some popsicles in the fridge-bar, though. Alfred had put his sugary treats there to hide them from Arthur, who was trying to force him to follow a more balanced diet…

At the thought of his brother, a sudden wave of anger surged in Matthew's chest – but he shouldn't worry about that.

With painful slowness, the boy managed to drag himself to the fridge and take out the popsicles before wrapping them around his ankle. Each movement had to be deliberately slow, every time he shifted, pain flared up in different parts of his abused body. He felt dizzy and nauseous, black spots dancing in his field of vision, but he gritted his teeth and managed to complete his task.

When Matthew finally raised his head, his bruised, beaten face looked back at him from the mirror. The ugly bruise that was starting to blossom over his left cheekbone looked even more vivid under the artificial light, his skin waxen. The right half of his face was almost completely encrusted by the blood coming from a gash on his temple, and thin ribbons of red coming from his nostrils and split lips completed the grotesque picture.

Matthew looked about as horrible as he felt.

A small, pitiful whine seeped through his lips as the boy lay down on the bed, curling up on himself to try to alleviate at least a bit the excruciating pain in his abdomen. He turned his head, automatically searching for Kumajiro's support before he remembered leaving his familiar home. He was alone. Matthew knew that it was better that way, Kumajiro wouldn't be of much help, yet, the boy found himself mourning his bear's absence, the soft, warm weight that would curl against his body, the rough tongue licking his wounds.

A lone tear slid down Matthew's cheek.

 _'Why me? Why always me?'_

He was overreacting, and he knew that. He had had far worse than some broken bones… yet, for some reason, the way everything hurt felt unbearable. Matthew blamed it on the concussion he was sure he was sporting. Or on the hand, usually so friendly and welcoming, that had administered with cruel precision the bruises that littered his aching body.

A small, pathetic whimper bubbled up Matthew's throat. He wanted at the same time to yell and cry, but he didn't have enough strength left for either action.

 _'Fuck you, Al. Can't you be nice at least for once? Why can't you see what you're doing to me?!'_

Well, one thing was certain. Matthew wanted to yell at his brother. He had never been that angry… no, it wasn't true, he had. Numerous times before.

The boy pictured in his mind his brother's dumb, smiling face. So arrogant, so _unaware_ … Matthew wanted to shake Alfred, to force him to rest his eyes on every single dark bruise decorating his younger brother's pale body, to answer for all the pain he was feeling…

And suddenly, another picture wormed its way into Matthew's mind. His brother's face, waxen, his eyes widened in horror. The trembling of the older nation's hands, his shoulders hunched over. ' _Oh, Mattie, I'm so sorry, I don't know how you can forgive me I'm sorry…'_

The truth was, Alfred had never meant to hurt him. He was often too careless, arrogant, never thinking of the consequences of his actions, but he rarely – if ever – meant any harm. And Matthew knew that. He _should_ know, it was his brother he was talking about.

 _'He has to wake up, dammit! He can't just go on this way!'_

It would have been so _easy_ to blame everything on America. Matthew was angry enough that he could do so. Or was he?

Alfred had cried so much when he had realized that he had hurt him. Matthew couldn't forget the anguish sculpted in his features, his eyes – so bright, so expressive. So earnestly crushed by guilt.

A part of Matthew wanted to think that Alfred had no right to feel sorry for himself. He was the one at fault after all, and Matthew was the one hurting. So, so much. And yet… in spite of his aching head and the dizziness that merged all his thought in a muffled spinning, Matthew knew that he couldn't blame his brother. Not entirely, at least.

Deep down, Matthew knew that _he_ was the one at fault. America was more than ready to accept the consequences of his actions – what fault had he if Canada was so bland that everybody forgot about him, mistaking him for his older brother? Had his brother any responsibility in the fact that Matthew was so utterly pathetic that all he could do was stutter while violent hands and feet kept reaching for every part of his weak body?

No matter how hurt and confused he was, Matthew couldn't deny that it _wasn't_ his brother's fault. And making him feel so bad for it… Matthew couldn't do that. He had withheld the truth once before, not standing to see Alfred blame himself for his injuries.

This time… this time was no different. For how much a part of Matthew wanted to lash out at Alfred, he couldn't hurt his brother another time. He _couldn't_.

The boy curled up tighter on himself, gasping at the pain that went through his ribs.

 _'I can't blame Alfred. I can't. It's not his fault, I can't blame Alfred.'_

The litany accompanied Matthew until his battered body took pity on him, and his consciousness was swallowed by darkness.

* * *

 **Three hours earlier**

The night was completely silent, the stillness of the air barely disturbed by the roaring of a car in the distance. Matthew found himself smiling, his eyes entranced by a bunch of light-coloured flowers that seemed to glow under the faint moonlight filtering through the clouds. Witnessing that peaceful scene, one would never imagine the ruckus that was going on inside. There was something to say about modern insulation, that was to admit.

Matthew sighed. He didn't feel like going back inside, but it was quite late, and the following day was going to be full. Ignored or not, it would be just _rude_ to fall asleep during a meeting… After stealing a last glance to the peaceful view, Canada resolutely turned his back to the balcony and opened the glass door, sliding inside the building.

He had been expecting noises and screams, instead, his ears were met by an eerie silence. Matthew stopped, blinking. The hallway was completely empty, only lit by the faint green glow of the emergency lights.

 _I must have stayed outside for longer than I thought._

Surprising, maybe, but not too much. Matthew wasn't exactly at the peak of awareness, at that moment. After the fifth day of the conference, and consequently four nights of little to no sleep, his patience and nerves were starting to wear thin… the young personification had truly needed a moment of calm, away from the screams and insults. When he had realized that somebody had spiked the punch with vodka, Matthew had decided that it was high time for a retreat, if he didn't want to get caught in some quarrel between drunk nations. They were never pleasant.

Shaking his head at the thought, Matthew started making his way through the hallway. Everybody had to be already asleep, or passed out… next morning was going to be fun.

 _'Maybe I should go and check on Francis,'_ Matthew thought suddenly, but immediately after, he recalled seeing the man trying to drag away an extremely drunk Prussia before he destroyed yet another chandelier. Right, Francis drank only high-quality wine, he wouldn't be affected by the punch. For once, the man's snobbishness was going to help. The corner of Matthew's lips curled into a slight smile.

He didn't need to check on Arthur, either, he was drunk out of his mind, but Alfred was taking care of him. Matthew recalled his very pissed off older brother dragging away their former caretaker while simultaneously trying to prevent him from stripping naked. Maybe it could be a good bonding opportunity, Matthew was tired of their constant bickering… or maybe not, but at least, Arthur would know that Alfred cared enough not to let him make a fool of himself in public.

 _"And don't you dare have a single sip of that thing, Mattie, you're still underage!"_ Alfred had yelled before getting out of the room. Annoying, but that meant he cared. And that he remembered Matthew's age, which was quite surprising on its own.

All in all, that conference was turning out to be better than Matthew would have ever dared to expect. Yes, his brother was is usual overly loud and rambunctious self, and he had spent most of the time trying to talk over the others to make his 'heroic ideas' heard, but he hadn't completely forgotten about Canada. He had insisted for his younger brother to sit next to him, and even if he had promptly forgotten about him afterwards, there were still advantages in that position. For one, Russia wouldn't sit a mile from America, which meant that Matthew wouldn't be squashed by the nation's considerable weight. In addition to that, both Francis and Arthur had looked at him and greeted him. Even _Italy_ had greeted him in passing, the previous day… a small smile tugged at the boy's lips. Maybe tomorrow he would even manage to say something, he had some idea that he thought could be useful. It was quite unlikely, but he was feeling hopeful.

Matthew was so engrossed in his pleasant thoughts that he didn't pay any attention to where he was going, his feet automatically retracing the steps he had gotten himself acquainted with over the last five days. He was trying in his head the way he could open his speech the following day, when, rounding a corner, his eyes fell on a big, dark shape next to the stairs, leaning heavily over the railings.

Matthew stopped short, squinting to focus his vision on the dimly lit corridor. A moment later, he recognized the tanned skin and long hair, combed in dreads.

"Hey, Cuba," he greeted, hurrying close to the older nation.

Matthew could immediately tell that there was something wrong – the man's head was down, but his hair was in disarray, and he was leaning far too heavily against the railing, as if he didn't have enough strength to keep himself upright.

 _Drunk, most likely._

Matthew didn't remember seeing Cuba at the after-dinner, but the man had most likely been there. And he had probably drunk some of the punch. As far as Matthew knew, Cuba had quite a high alcohol tolerance, but, judging from everybody's reaction, that thing had been _strong_.

"How are you feeling? Do you think you can walk? You should get back to your room…" Matthew fretted, gently laying a hand on the man's shoulder.

Cuba shook his head, mumbling something unintelligible.

Matthew's eyebrow furrowed.

 _'This is worse than I had thought… Will I have to carry him?'_

He was strong, but Cuba was heavy, he could easily make the boy lose his balance if he started squirming too much… but it looked like there wasn't much choice.

"Come on, let me help you."

Matthew reached for Cuba's hand, meaning wrap the man's arm around his shoulder. Cuba finally reacted at the movement, raising his head.

"America…" he growled.

Matthew sighed. _Of course_ Cuba wasn't going to recognize him if he were drunk. Not when he still got mistaken when he was sober, even if more and more rarely… The task of dragging the man to a room had suddenly become ten times more difficult.

"No, it's me, Canada. Come on, you shouldn't stay he—"

Pain exploded in Matthew's left cheekbone as something hard connected with it. The boy found himself falling to the ground, he barely had the time to brace himself for the impact. He immediately brought a hand to his aching face, shakily pushing himself off the floor. The blow had been strong enough to leave his ears ringing, bright white spots were dancing in front of his eyes.

"What the hell, C—"

Matthew wasn't left the time to complete the sentence.

"America, you fucking bastard!"

With surprising agility for one that hadn't been able to stay on his feet a few moments earlier, Cuba pouched at the younger nation. Before he had had time to regain his bearings, Canada felt himself being violently shoved backwards – just towards the flight of stairs.

The boy cried out, half in surprise and half in complaint, as he frantically tried to regain his footing, but Cuba's blow had been too strong, and Matthew was still dazed from the previous hit. He landed awkwardly on the edge of a step with his right leg, which wasn't strong enough to support all his weight. Accompanied by a sharp snap and a wave of agony that surged from his ankle and spread over the whole limb, Matthew's leg buckled under him. The boy couldn't restrain a pained howl as his body rolled down the flight of stairs, the sharp edges of the steps digging into his soft skin, until he finally landed in a heap at the bottom.

For some long, interminable instants, Matthew could only lie there, gasping, his whole body enveloped by agony.

Finally, the boy's mind started to clear up enough to let him make an inventory of his possible injuries. Matthew squinted, trying to clear his vision from the dark edges that had started swallowing it. His head was hurting horribly from the impact with the edge of a step, he could feel something wet roll down his temple. _Blood_. A concussion, most likely. ' _Great, just what I needed_.' The rest of his body was throbbing in various places, his stomach churning in response to the pain. Matthew knew that he was going to wake up covered in black and blue bruises the following day. And his right leg – oh, his leg. When Matthew tried to move it, the rush of pain was so bad that he felt like puking. An agonized moan seeped through his lips. Oh, there was _no way_ he was going to get up. And his head was spinning so bad…

The sound of heavy footsteps reverberating in the silence brought the boy back to reality.

"Cuba, what the hell…" he mumbled, trying to ignore the dizziness and pain and roll over to face the older nation.

He succeeded only halfway, he wasn't even on his side when Cuba's shadow fell on him as the man bent over him.

For a moment, Matthew was sure that Cuba had realized his mistake and was going to help him up, but the illusion was quickly shattered when the nation's large fingers closed over the fabric of Matthew's shirt. The boy barely caught a glimpse of Cuba's frowning face as he was none too gently hauled to his feet. The older man's hot breath blew in Matthew's face, invading his nostril with a sickly pungent scent – _alcohol_. Matthew barely had the time process the information, a slight twist of fear in a corner of his mind, before he was slammed against the wall, and any rational thought faded.

Winded by the blow, Matthew didn't even have the strength to cry out. A strangled gasp seeped through his lips at the sudden spike of pain that shot through his leg and head, intensifying the churning in his stomach. It was far too clear that Cuba was still thinking he was America.

Trying to suppress a cough and ignore the ringing in his ears, Canada forced himself to pry his eyes open and talk, looking squarely at the wavering face in front of him.

"C—Cuba, please…"

His faint plead was cut short by a violent blow to his stomach. Matthew gasped at the wave of agony that washed over him, his lips open in a silent scream. He would have doubled over, but Cuba's hand kept him pressed against the wall, digging into his neck.

"You had it coming, you fucking bastard!"

Almost blinded by the pain, Matthew could do nothing as the enraged nation drove his fist against his stomach, again and again, without giving him a single moment of respite.

When Cuba finally loosened the hold on his neck, the boy crumbled to the ground, curling up on himself. He sputtered and coughed, desperately trying to regain his breath, his arms pressed against his stomach. He felt like he had been trampled by a hoard of elephants, the pain radiating from his stomach to engulf his whole body, his muscles writhing in agony. It was almost too much to bear, Matthew feared that he was on the verge of passing out – and the ringing in his ears and waves of nausea that were washing over him certainly seemed to validate his theory. A corner of the boy's dazed mind vaguely complimented himself on not eating lunch nor dinner, or any food ingested would have been a puddle on the floor – then, the reality of the situation hit Matthew like a ton of bricks.

Cuba was beating him up. Again. But this time was different, worse. With his rage amplified by his drunken state, the nation wasn't pulling any blow – there was no telling where he would stop. If he would stop at all. His mind felt so muddled that he could barely think, a ringing was drowning out any rational thought, but Matthew knew that he had to do something. If only he could make Cuba realize his mistake…

Forcing his eyes open, Matthew tried to ignore the dark edges around his vision and focus on the blurry figure that was standing in front of him, apparently contemplating his trembling frame.

"C—cuba…" Matthew's voice was even lower than usual, nothing but a feeble moan, but he forced himself to go on. "P—please, stop, I…"

He saw Cuba lift his foot, and his brain screamed at his limbs to move, but for some reason, they didn't seem to cooperate. Before Matthew could even move an inch, Cuba's foot crashed heavily against his unprotected side, making his body twitch in agony.

"Don't try to beg, America!"

Matthew couldn't have done it anyway, the blow had left him completely winded, he could hardly draw a breath – he couldn't even cry out, in spite of the agonizing pain. He tried to raise his arms in a pathetic attempt to protect himself, but his left shoulder twitched in protest – dislocated, maybe. Or broken. He couldn't tell through the haze of pain that seemed to block any rational thought.

Cuba didn't leave the boy time to do anything else. With an enraged growl, the man kicked him again on his already aching stomach, a flash of white agony that engulfed all of Matthew's senses for a moment. But Cuba didn't stop. His kicks kept reaching every part of Matthew's body, getting progressively stronger and stronger.

All the while, the man was spluttering slurred insults mixed with growls, but Matthew couldn't make out his words, he could hardly hear anything above the intense ringing in his ears, only fragments of what the enraged nation was yelling. _"Bastard,"_ seemed to be prevalent. Along with _"America"_ , _"you fucker"_ , and _"you're gonna fucking cry"_. But there was something wrong. And not only in how heavy the blows were – there was something wrong in the way Cuba was speaking.

Through the haze of pain, it took Matthew embarrassingly long to realize that the man was starting to slur his sentences. ' _Drunk'_ , he suddenly remembered. And in spite of that, Matthew didn't feel any better. The pain wasn't going away, Cuba was still hitting him – still insulting him with a name that wasn't even _his_. Cuba, who was supposed to be his friend. Whose blows didn't show any sign of slowing down.

Matthew knew that he should have moved, but he was in too much pain to do so, his limbs weren't answering him, twitching in pain when he tried to shift them. A twinge of fear surged in his confused mind. He tried several times to beg for Cuba – his _friend –_ to stop, but he could hardly breathe, and everything was muffled by the haze of pain, Matthew couldn't tell whether he had actually talked or not.

And suddenly, there was nothing but agony. A more violent kick had reached Matthew's ribcage, the boy felt the bones bend inward in a way they weren't supposed to before giving away with a snap under the weight of the foot pressing on them. Matthew tried to scream in pain, but only a strangled moan seeped thought his lips. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think – his body instinctively tried to curl into a ball to protect itself from the searing agony, but another violent kick sent him sprawled on his back.

Matthew coughed in a desperate attempt to regain his breath, the spires of agony growing more and more intense with each spasm. He had to breathe, he had to move away, he had to – everything faded into an explosion of pain as another blow reached his injured side. The boy's body couldn't take it anymore. He had no more control over his limbs or his heaving lungs.

"This is what you deserve, America…" he heard from afar, and he could almost feel something hit his body, but didn't process it as his consciousness faded into darkness.

* * *

Matthew woke up with a groan, with his head pounding and the distinct feeling that there was something _wrong_. When he tried to take a deep breath, a wave of agony seared through his ribcage. The boy whimpered. Oh, he _did_ remember what was wrong, now.

Matthew opened his eyes, grimacing at the spike of pain that went through his brain. The sunrays seemed to stab his temples, increasing his headache, and his eyes took far too long to focus fully on the ceiling. He hadn't been sure the previous night, after he had woken up on the floor and managed to drag himself to his room, but now, the boy could tell it with certainty: he had a concussion. It didn't even feel like a slight one. And every single inch of his body was hurting too.

Matthew groaned. How he wished that he could just go back to sleep… but with his luck, somebody was bound to notice his absence the only time he didn't need them to.

 _'At least today is Saturday, and tomorrow is free… I can do it,'_ Matthew tried to console himself as he started bracing himself against the pain that was sure to follow.

Sitting up was just as bad as he had imagined, it took every inch of his will not to cry out. His abdomen and ribs protested violently against the movements, sending waves of pain that made Matthew's stomach lurch.

But Canada wasn't new to pain. Gritting his teeth, the boy forced himself to stay still and breathe shallowly until the pain faded to a slightly more bearable level, and his vision started to clear. Not completely – there were still blurred edges – but Matthew wasn't about to faint anymore. He would manage, if he were careful.

Gingerly, Matthew unbuttoned his shirt and took it off along with the jacket. His shoulder twitched in pain at the movement, eliciting a gasp from the boy's lips. It had been dislocated in the fall, and he had tried to set it the day before when he had woken up, but apparently, he hadn't done such a good job. The boy could move his arm, but it felt swollen and weak, and his muscles seized in pain when he tried a slightly ampler movement.

 _'Well, it's not like I can do any better for now. It will have to heal on its own.'_

With a soft sigh, Matthew decided to leave the matter for another time and slowly turned to face the mirror. The sight that welcomed him made the boy grimace in revulsion. To put it simply, Matthew looked horrid: the blood had caked around his face and hair in a cracked, brown mask, and his left cheekbone, while thankfully not swollen, had turned to such an intense hue of purple that Matthew's own eyes faded before it. The visible skin was stark white and tight with pain, his lips bloodless.

Matthew sent mental thanks at Francis, who had given him some concealer to hide the bags under his eyes the day before – and at the same time, he grimaced at the thought of getting up and washing his face and hair. He felt almost nauseous anticipating the pain, but gritted his teeth and shelved the issue for when he would have to deal with it.

With methodical accuracy, he moved to examine his abdomen. It looked even worse than his face, almost completely covered in deep purple and black patches. His left side looked particularly bad – Matthew gingerly lifted his hand and tried to press a finger against his ribs. Even the light pressure made him double over, the pain radiating from his side so fierce that for a moment he couldn't even breathe – all his thoughts faded in an explosion of white.

When he regained his bearings, Matthew could feel hot tears pressing against his squeezed lids.

 _'Okay. Definitely broken. Not doing that again.'_

The boy had strongly hoped that his ribs were only badly bruised, but he knew the feeling far too well. For how much he would have liked to deny it, there was no use lying to himself. Matthew tried to console himself with the knowledge that no broken bones had pierced his lungs – while every intake of breath felt like he was being stabbed, his lungs could expand without problems. That was a relief, he had experienced collapsed lungs more than a few times before and he wasn't keen on repeating the experience.

His stomach was coiled in pain, the muscles throbbing painfully and protesting at each movement. Matthew knew that he wasn't going to attempt eating any time soon, and from how dark the bruises looked and how every light touch ignited sparks of agony, he could tell that there was probably some internal bruising. No bleeding, however. It had been more than a few hours since he had been beaten up, and Matthew knew that he would have felt it by now, and it would have been infinitely worse than how he was feeling. The searing agony of internal bleeding and gastric acids spreading through his abdominal cavity wasn't something he was going to ever forget, not experiencing it again was a blessing.

Matthew frowned at the pale reflection in the mirror.

"Stop whining," he hissed out loud, "You've had worse. You're not a little colony anymore, what kind of nation are you, if you cannot even handle a little beating?"

Except it hadn't been so little, and Matthew looked anything but all right. And it wasn't _fair_ that he had to feel like that when it wasn't even…

"Stop the pity parade," he growled again.

It wasn't his fault, and at the same time, it was. America would have defended himself, in the same situation. _Alfred…_ Matthew couldn't deny that he was angry at him. He felt betrayed, hurt by his brother's nonchalant arrogance and obliviousness. But those were only feelings.

 _'I made a promise. I cannot blame Al, it's not really his fault. He would feel so awful…'_

Alfred wouldn't know anything. He must not even realize that Matthew was injured in the first place. And Canada was good at making himself unnoticed, at blending into his surroundings, _wasn't he?_

The resolution gave Matthew enough strength to stand from his bed and start preparing himself for the day, ignoring the way the muscles of his stomach coiled in agony and the waves of pain that washed over his body at each movement. Putting the weight on his injured ankle made him almost cry out and stumble, which in turn made his injured ribs grate against each other, but when the roaring in his ears receded to a faint ringing and his vision started to clear, Matthew managed to find some sort of precarious balance. Moving around wasn't easy, limping made his ribs shift awkwardly and his stomach roll in pain, but he could manage not to faint. Barely, but that was what truly counted.

Half an hour later, Matthew had managed to make himself presentable. His face and hair had been washed, a band-aid was hidden behind his bangs and the bruise decently covered by foundation. Three tablets of Tylenol extra strength were hopefully going to dull the pain at least a bit – it wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. Hopefully, it was going to be enough for Alfred (and anybody else, but Alfred was his main concern) not to notice anything.

Feeling somewhat proud of his accomplishment, Matthew finally left his room and headed for the conference hall with almost thirty minutes to spare. He was lucky to be so early, it meant that nobody would see him as he stumbled along the corridors, often leaning heavily against the wall. The boy thanked every God whose name he knew for the presence of an elevator, he would have never managed to climb down the stairs.

When he finally reached the designed room and sank on his chair, Matthew was so dizzy that he could barely think, blurred edges threatened to swallow his vision and the throbbing muscles of his stomach were rolling with waves of nausea, but if he breathed shallowly and stayed slightly hunched over, with his arms pressed against his middle, he could manage not to faint. That would be enough.

Little by little, other nations started filling the room. None of them noticed Canada – but they barely spoke to each other, either. They were all shuffling along, pale and slightly unsteady on their feet, squinting at the too bright lights. Matthew suddenly realized that most of them were hungover. Not being noticed would be even easier.

And for some reason, the thought wasn't as pleasant as it should have been. Cuba had just staggered into the room, looking paler than Matthew had ever seen him, his hair still slightly in disarray and his steps unsteady. He looked better than unmoving lump Matthew had left at the bottom of the stairs the previous night _(or early in the morning? He honestly couldn't tell)_ but not by much. He had changed his clothes however, he must have woken up at some point and gotten back to his room. Matthew wondered what Cuba had thought upon finding himself passed out on the floor, if he remembered something about what had happened. It didn't look like so, he didn't spare a single glance at Canada.

Matthew knew that the other nation hadn't meant to hurt him. He knew that Cuba had troubles controlling his temper, and the alcohol had only increased his anger. He knew that Cuba was actually fond of him, they were friends, the older nation had even started misplacing him less and less over the years… Matthew hadn't expected him to do that again after that summer. And he knew that Cuba probably wouldn't have, if it hadn't been for the alcohol numbing his thoughts. He knew that. But somehow, it still _hurt._ Was he really that insignificant?

Matthew's mood only worsened when his brother finally showed up. America almost tore open the door, announcing his presence with a dazzling smile and a loud voice that made the hungover nations collectively groan in pain. His steps were confident, his shoulders squared. In moments like that, Canada understood perfectly why nobody seemed to consider him before his older brother. How could they? It wasn't even Alfred's fault. America was just like that, he was so strong and lively, he didn't let himself be put down by anything.

If anything, it was Matthew's fault. _He_ was the one who didn't manage to make himself recognizable. If only he had some distinguishing feature, the others would tell him apart from America. If he talked more loudly, if he weren't such a pushover. And that was all his fault, Alfred shouldn't have to suffer for it.

Such thoughts accompanied Matthew for the entire duration of the conference. He tried to take his mind off them as he listened to Germany's speech, and Denmark's after his, but he could barely make out their words at times, their voices sounded like they were coming from far away. It was far more important that Matthew concentrated on not shifting, or he wouldn't be able to restrain at least a whimper… and to think he had been sure he could try to take part in the discussion, the previous day. Oh, how the tables had turned… Canada almost felt like laughing. Or crying. But neither was a good idea, seeing that he could barely breathe.

At least, Alfred wasn't paying any attention to him, too busy teasing a clearly hungover and snappy Arthur when he wasn't talking. Matthew couldn't really fathom how his brother could find that amusing, Arthur's normal sarcasm got almost cruel when he was in that mood… but he should be glad that Alfred was distracted, he didn't want to get his attention. And instead, his chest clenched when his brother's eyes swept over him without ever stopping.

 _God, I'm such a whiny baby…_

Matthew's mood wasn't improved by the fact that the slight action of the painkillers faded over the morning, letting the pain in his ribs increase steadily. By midday, even a shallow breath sent spires of agony spreading all over his abdomen, Matthew had to actively restrain himself from whimpering in pain. How he wanted to just lie down…

Finally, Germany's voice tore through the light chattering that Matthew had barely noticed until then.

"I see that nobody seems to be concentrating on this talk!" Sounding more and more irritated, the nation started reprimanding everybody on how they were all adult _(well, not really)_ and should be responsible enough (' _should'_ was the keyword in Matthew's opinion, but Germany seemed to have a higher opinion of other nations than Matthew had) not to get completely wasted during conference time. Matthew had started losing interest in the lecture, trying to concentrate on more important things (not fainting, for example) when suddenly, Germany uttered the sweetest words the boy could have ever imagined: "…And since we aren't getting to anything, I propose we cut it short here for today. Tomorrow is a free day, you have more than enough time to recuperate. I want to see everybody alert and full of propositions on Monday."

Nobody contradicted Germany. Without a single complaint, all the other nations started gathering their papers and getting up from the chairs, the chatter rising in volume.

Matthew couldn't believe his luck. _One day and a half_. He wouldn't be healed by then, Cuba had clearly meant harm and those injuries would take at least a couple of weeks to fade, but he had time to come up with a plan. And his concussion _would_ get better in the meantime, everything would be easier when his head wasn't throbbing and spinning so much.

Matthew waited for all the other nations to leave the room before attempting to get up the chair. It wasn't easy at all, every inch of his body screamed in pain at the movement and his stomach curled and turned in protest, but he was standing. And he could walk.

Well, sort of. His ankle couldn't support his weight (Matthew was strongly starting to suspect that it wasn't even simply sprained, but broken. _Joy_.) but he couldn't properly limp, either, when he tried, his ribs protested so violently that for a moment everything faded in a red wave of agony. He could shuffle leaning against the wall, however. If nobody noticed him…

The illusion was shattered a few feet from the elevator by a loud voice that would have been welcome in any other moment, but made Matthew's stomach coil with dread.

"Hey, Mattie!"

The boy managed to turn to see his brother reach him with long strides, his eyes bright behind the glasses and his white-toothed smile unwavering.

"We have a free afternoon, aren't you glad? I was thinking that we could get a bit of air, there should be an ancient church somewhere near, and Feli told me that the town centre is really cute! He and Lovino came here a day earlier just to see it, you know?"

It would have been a wonderful idea, had Matthew been healthy. And Alfred had immediately thought about him… how could Matthew hurt him? He _had_ to hide everything, but it was looking more and more difficult…

"If you're not too tired, of course. Have you slept? You look kinda pale… I mean, you're always pale, but you look paler than usual…"

His brother was squinting at him, his brow furrowed in concern. Matthew mentally thanked him for providing him with the perfect excuse.

"I would really love to," he said, mustering a weak smile. "But… actually… I _am_ quite tired. I'm sorry, I just…"

Alfred's expression softened.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about it, then," he assured earnestly, "Sleep is important. Just go to your room and have a nap, all right? I'll check on you for dinner."

The first part was okay. The second wasn't. But maybe, Matthew could pretend to be asleep when Alfred came… Would his brother wake him up to make sure he ate something?

"Oh, hey there, Artie!"

At Alfred's voice, Matthew turned automatically towards the slight figure that was slowly making his way through the corridor. Arthur looked horrible, his shoulders were hunched over and his hair in disarray. If his vision hadn't been wavering, Matthew was sure he could have seen a sickly pallid hue on the man's skin.

"You know, I wanted to have a walk around," Alfred went on cheerfully, "Matthew said that he couldn't come with me, so why don't you, if you're ' _perfectly fine'_?"

From the lightly teasing intonation of his brother's voice, Matthew was sure that his question was some sort of joke or the continuation of a previous discussion. Alfred had taken care of Arthur the previous evening, after all.

His theory was confirmed by Arthur's sputtered answer. It was something about having work to do since he was the Meeting's host, but Matthew was having troubles concentrating on his words.

Next to him, Alfred laughed good-naturedly.

"Busy, uh? Is that the British English for hungover, is it, Mattie?"

Matthew didn't know how to answer without aggravating one of his brothers.

He didn't have to. Still laughing, Alfred elbowed him in his tender left side, and everything faded in a blinding explosion of agony.

All the air left Matthew's lungs in a strangled gasp, the boy vaguely felt his knees give away under him. He couldn't breathe, his chest was heaving in agony, the pain spreading all over his body, his eyes were still open but he couldn't see anything… His hands shot out in a desperate search for support and grabbed Alfred's shirt. Matthew felt his brother's hands support his body, easing his descent. He didn't exactly fall – more likely ended up on his knees, hunched over, leaning against Alfred's strong body.

"Mattie?! Shit, Mattie, what's wrong?!" he could hear his brother call him from far away.

 _Shit. Shit!_

Alfred shouldn't have known. Matthew wanted to answer him, but all he could do was desperately cough and gasp for breath as waves of agony and nausea spread from his abdomen to his entire body.

"Alfred, what the hell did you do to him?!" Arthur's voice had joined Alfred's, it sounded even further away, Matthew could barely hear it, above the buzzing in his ears.

"I—I didn't do anything!" his brother sounded frantic, panicked. "I just— Matthew, answer me!"

One of Alfred's hand was tapping his face, almost a slap, but gentler. A corner of Matthew's mind had the presence to be grateful that it wasn't his injured cheek.

He tightened his fingers around Alfred's shirt, desperately trying to ground himself.

"It—" he managed to wheeze before his abdomen spasmed again, making him gasp in pain.

"What, Matthew?"

Arthur's voice sounded almost stern, but the hand that landed on Matthew's head was gentle.

"Mattie?" Alfred echoed him, panicked. Still sounding far away.

Matthew swallowed painfully, trying to calm down his churning stomach. He managed to suck in a shallow breath, the ringing in his ears slowly receding.

"It wasn't Alfred's fault."

 **(word count: 7,165)**

* * *

 **Notes :**

End of the first chapter! I hope you liked it, even if it was just an introduction. This was extremely difficult to write, and I'm pretty sure I messed up the scene with Cuba, which was so frustrating… (the scene was perfectly formed in my mind, but writing it down? Uugh I was never satisfied, it took me forever. Still not satisfied, but I'm never satisfied of my works). Anyway, next chapter will probably be un in a week or a bit later. I'll try to be quicker, but my schedule is quite full at the moment, so I don't think it will be possible.

Since a few months ago, I'm also on tumblr! (my username there is feynavaley) Except for reblogging, I've also written some of my headcanons and they all apply to my stories, in case you're interested (points that might be of interest: how injuries and illnesses work for nations, some other general things about being a nation, and why I write Canada as the younger brother. Please read that post before leaving reviews only to complain about it, because this headcanon is based on canonical evidence and it's not something I'm going to back off from.)

 **IMPORTANT!** Canada is using Tylenol because all the other light painkillers should be taken after eating (which he can't do at the moment) or they often result in an upset stomach, especially if you take a high dose. I thought Canada would know that. Also, the dose of Tylenol he took is too high, but he's doing that because he would actually need stronger painkillers, some opiate probably, and since he's nation he's less likely to suffer from adverse effects. DO NOT take 3 Tylenol extra strength (I hope that nobody takes medical advice from things they have read in fanfiction, but one can never be careful enough and I've heard some things that made me realize I should probably write this). 2 is fine if you're over 14 years old, 50 kg and with a bad fever (in fact, in Italy we have a formulation that has directly 1 mg of acetaminophen), but NEVER 3.

English is still not my first language, I apologize for the mistakes and oddly-phrased sentences. If you have time, I'd be really grateful if you pointed out anything wrong you found :)

Please tell me what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes :** Second chapter here! I hope you will enjoy a bit of fluff before the shit hits the fans. Thanks to the people who favorited and/or followed this, I hope you won't be disappointed!

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

 _"It wasn't Alfred's fault."_

For a moment, everything stilled after Matthew's rasped words. Alfred's fingers were resting on his cheek, Arthur's hand was hovering over his head.

Matthew felt a burst of gratitude for the momentary respite – it didn't last long, but when Arthur spoke again, he had had time to suck in a few breaths.

"What do you mean?" the older nation asked sharply.

His voice sounded clearer. Matthew's ears were still ringing, but not as bad as before, and the pain had settled to a slightly more bearable level. The boy didn't dare to move for fear of aggravating one of his injuries, but he managed to raise his head and squint his eyes open. After a few moments, his eyes focused on the slightly blurred faces that were hovering over him, their features tightened in concern.

"Al didn't do anything wrong," Matthew repeated, trying to take time to come up with an excuse.

While he wasn't about to faint anymore, his brain still felt somehow muddled, and it wasn't helped by the nausea that was starting to rise from the pit of his aching stomach.

He saw Alfred bit his lower lip, the creases on his forehead tightening.

"I elbowed you and you went down like that," his brother said softly, but there was a hint of despair in his voice. Ignoring Arthur's scoffing, he swallowed and went on. "But I… I'm pretty sure I didn't hit you that hard, did I? I didn't mean to… but I'm sure I didn't!"

His cornflower blue eyes were looking straight into Matthew ones, imploring. The boy's stomach twisted at the clear distress on his brother's face. _That_ was why he hadn't wanted him to know…

Arthur huffed again.

"Yes, I'm sure this is exactly what happened, and the fact your brother looks like he's about to faint is completely unrelated to the strength of the blow you dealt him. Bloody hell, Alfred, you really need to…"

Matthew couldn't let it go on that way.

"But he didn't hit me that hard, really," he confirmed, trying to keep his voice from wavering. "I… I was already hurt. I fell down the stairs yesterday…"

His voice drifted off. That wasn't even a real lie, technically. Would it be enough? Matthew hoped so, because his brain was too occupied trying to fend off the stabs of pain that hit him at every shallow breath to come up with a convincing lie.

He felt Alfred suck in a deep breath, while Arthur leaned over him, his eyes widened in concern.

"You fell down the stairs? Where are you hurt?"

"Ankle," answered Matthew, because he felt like it was the easiest thing to explain. "I slipped and landed on it."

Moving slowly, he managed to shift his weight against Alfred, stubbornly biting back a pained moan, and extended his right leg in front of Arthur.

Alfred gasped in participation as Arthur gently lifted the end of Matthew's pant, exposing his swollen ankle. It looked even worse than Matthew remembered, decorated with deep blue-purple patches that turned to an angry black in some points.

Arthur's features tightened.

"Bloody hell…" he muttered, "This looks bad… I'm sorry, Matthew."

In spite of the apology, the boy wasn't ready for the rush of pain that surged through his leg when Arthur's finger gently tried to move his ankle. He managed not to cry out, but couldn't stifle a whimper as he sharply turned his head towards Alfred's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. The churning in his stomach intensified.

"Arthur, stop!" Alfred cried out, one of his hands protectively landing on Matthew's head. "You're hurting him!"

But Arthur had already retracted his fingers.

"Sorry, lad," he repeated in a soft voice.

He sounded so sincerely concerned that Matthew forced himself to face him again, blinking away the tears at the corners of his eyes.

"It's all right," he rasped automatically, unable to come up with something more elaborate through the haze of pain that shielded his brain from any rational thought.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head.

"No, it's not. I think your ankle is broken, Matthew. Why…" the man stopped himself and took a deep breath. "Where else are you hurt?"

The calmness in his voice was forced. Matthew almost wanted to cry, he had managed to make Alfred worry and anger Arthur. All at one time.

"Just the ankle," he answered in a pathetic whimper. "I… I had to put my weight on it when Al elbowed me…"

He couldn't let them see his ribs or stomach, he was pretty sure that bruising both so badly in the same fall was very unlikely…

Alfred took a sharp intake of breath, the hand on Matthew's head tensed.

"Mattie…"

"And this is why you're curled around your ribs," Arthur preceded him, scoffing.

Matthew was taken aback by the reproach. Was he…? He suddenly realized that yes, he _was_ still bent over his ribs. He was leaning against Alfred, but he was still doubled over, his arms wrapped around his midsection. The boy hadn't even thought about it, it was an automatic position to shield himself from the pain as much as he could. And there was no way he was going to be able to straighten up completely, he would probably pass out from the pain. Or throw up, seeing how his abused stomach was twisting. To put it simply, he was screwed.

Mattie opened and closed his mouth. He wanted to defend himself, but could find no words to do it.

"God, Mattie," Alfred uttered suddenly, leading the younger boy to tilt his head towards him.

Alfred shook his head, his features were scrunched in concern.

"You hurt your ribs and I elbowed you. God, I'm so sorry… no wonder you went down like that."

"It's fine. You didn't know," Matthew replied automatically, leaning more heavily against his brother's comforting body.

The boy had to close his eyes, his head was spinning too much to keep them open. Alfred's fingers started threading through his hair in a comforting motion.

In front of him, Arthur took a deep breath.

"This time, Matthew is right. It's not your fault, Alfred, I apologize for implying that it was. What I would like to know, however, is _why_ none of us knew. Injuries to the ribs are a serious matter, Matthew, and I know that…"

The incipient telling off was cut short by a loud gasp from Alfred. Matthew felt his fingers stiffen in his hair, and he forced his eyes open, trying to understand why – _oh. Whoops_. Alfred had brushed his bangs away from his forehead and he had found the band-aid on his temple. Matthew would have almost laughed.

"Mattie!" his brother cried out, his eyes wide. "Oh my G— did you hit your head, too?"

"What?!"

Arthur leaned over, his brow wrinkled in concern.

"It… it's not that bad," Matthew mumbled, but both his brothers scoffed in response.

"Bloody hell, Matthew…" sighed Arthur, shaking his head. "How badly are you hurt? Where else?"

 _…There is no more point in hiding anything, is it?_

Alfred looked shocked, Arthur almost angry. Canada wanted to punch himself. Why wasn't he even able to hide his injuries? He was feeling more pathetic with each passing moment.

"I dislocated my shoulder," he admitted feebly, "I tried to set it, but I don't know if it worked. And I have some bruises on my stomach, too."

"It was a bad fall," he added lamely at the shocked concern etched in the faces hovering over him.

Matthew felt horrible for causing that distress to his older brothers – but maybe, he could still salvage the situation a bit. If they believed that he had fallen down the stairs, it would be – certainly not ideal, but better than the alternative.

Alfred was the first to regain his bearings.

"Jesus, Matthew!" he exclaimed, tightening his hold on his younger brother. It hurt, but Matthew wasn't going to complain. "How… How did you even get back to your room? Why didn't you call me?! And… Jesus, what were you even doing at the meeting! You should be lying down!"

Matthew's battered body completely agreed with Alfred's words, and his mind was so muddled by pain and nausea that even putting together a sentence was a struggle, but he had to at least try to answer.

"I… The meeting is important. And it's not that bad. And… yesterday wasn't that bad, either. Besides… you were _busy_ …".

The boy regretted the last words as soon as they came out of his mouth, but it was too late to take them back. He saw both Arthur and Alfred change expression, various grades of regret reflected in their eyes.

"I'm sorry, Matthew," said Arthur, his voice once again gentle. "I didn't mean to lose control that way yesterday. And…"

"No offence, dude," chimed in Alfred, "But had I known that Mattie was hurt, I would have left you in your room and got to him. You were just drunk. Gosh, Matthew…"

"But…"

"Alfred is right," Arthur interrupted him before he could go on. "You should have just called him, never mind me. Or you could have called Francis, or anybody else."

"Yeah! And for God's sake, Mattie, what were you thinking? I have no idea of how you managed to get back to your room yesterday, but why the hell didn't you call anybody this morning, too? God, look at you! You can barely stay awake! I don't really know how you managed to get down, but in any case, you shouldn't have! No meeting is more important than your health! And why weren't you telling me?! I don't really…"

"Alfred!" Arthur's call finally made America shut up, giving Matthew a moment of respite.

He was feeling awful – and not only because every inch of his body hurt and every single breath ignited sparks of agony that enhanced the throbbing in his head and the churning of his stomach, Alfred's words were like a million of stabs. His brother was worried, but also… disappointed. Matthew knew that he was. _'It's better than him feeling guilty,'_ he tried to tell himself, and it was true, but at the same time, it couldn't quell the deep ache. Matthew was feeling truly pathetic.

"…I didn't want to bother you," he murmured feebly.

He felt Alfred take a deep breath at that, but Arthur shook his head. A heavy silence fell between them.

"Sometimes I really worry for you, Mattie," Alfred stated in the end, sighing.

Matthew felt his chest clench at the genuine distress in his brother's voice – but it was still better than how he would have felt if he had known the truth. He had to remind himself that.

"Sorry," he whispered anyway.

"Don't apologize, just start taking care of yourself," replied Alfred, and at the same time, he stroked Matthew's hair.

It was a sign that he had been forgiven. Things could still work out, if Canada didn't screw up again.

Arthur cleared his throat.

"Enough of this," he declared, already getting up. "Taking care of his injuries is more important, for now. Alfred, I'll go get a first aid kit."

Alfred nodded.

"I'll bring him to my room."

Without any other word, Arthur turned and walked away, his strides far steadier and quicker than they had been before.

"Sorry, this is going to hurt a bit," Alfred said in a soft voice.

In spite of the warning, Matthew couldn't stop the whimper that bubbled up his throat when his brother scooped him up. It had been a smooth motion, but Matthew's ribs still grated against each other, sending spasms of agony through his entire body, and the aching muscles of his abdomen protested violently, making the bile rise to the back of his throat.

 _'Still better than walking, anyway,'_ the boy reasoned as soon as his head cleared up enough for him to think.

Alfred shushed him, tightening his hold.

"I'm sorry. You'll be able to lie down in a bit, just hold on, 'kay?"

"It's okay. I'm fine."

 _'You don't have to carry me,'_ Matthew wanted to add, because he was feeling more and more guilty for troubling his brother ( _How could he have ever been angry at him?_ ), but he knew far too well that it wasn't true. The fact that Alfred was carrying him was a blessing, in spite of the way his stomach was churning, the nausea growing with the motion.

Yet, it was _embarrassing_ that he had to be carried that way. Canada was supposed to be one of the most powerful nations in the world, not a weak cry-baby… the facts told another story, however.

"No, you're not okay. But you will be."

The bitterness in Alfred's voice made his stomach clench even more, but Matthew couldn't speak to comfort his older brother. His body had finally decided to give up on him, and the sense of nausea was increasing steadily with the pain, the white noise in his ears was growing more and more prominent. Matthew was afraid that he was going to throw up if he opened his mouth, his throat was painfully dry. He shut his eyes and hid his face against Alfred's shoulder, trying to regulate his breaths without hurting his ribs too much. He was hardly aware of his surroundings, the thumping of Alfred's shoes against the polished floor seemed miles away, and at the same time, each one of them was like a hammer against his skull. Somehow, Mattie still managed to refrain himself from uttering a single moan.

"You still with me, Mattie?" Alfred asked after some time, his voice laced with concern.

His stride lost its rhythm as he leaned against the door to force it open and finally got into the room. Matthew almost wanted to cry in relief.

"Mhmh…" he managed to moan as his brother gently lowered him on the mattress.

The boy didn't even try to open his eyes, too concentrated on trying to control his lurching stomach, nor could he thank his brother when he gently removed his shoes. A stab of pain in his ankle elicited a hiss from his lips, but it was only for a moment.

Above the white statics, Matthew vaguely heard Alfred move around the room. It took him some time to realize that his brother was talking, too.

"…prop you up, will it be enough? Oh, and I should probably change you into some more comfortable clothes, those formal suits are so stiff... Ah, I should have some sweatpants of yours somewhere. Let me look…"

Alfred's voice faded in the buzzing in the background. Matthew's mouth felt like sandpaper, his stomach was rolling. He placed his good hand against it, but it was more of a symbolic gesture, his arm felt weak.

Suddenly, Alfred's hands were on his hips. Matthew was confused for a moment before his brother unbuttoned his trousers. _'Right. He wanted to change them.'_ The boy didn't really feel like doing that, but he had no time to protest before his brother started undressing him. Every movement generated spikes of pain, intensifying the nausea.

 _'Don't cry out. Don't moan.'_

Using every inch of his will, Matthew managed to stay focused enough to avoid voicing his discomfort, but by the time Alfred had finished changing him and his legs were enveloped in a pair of soft sweatpants, the churning of his pained stomach had intensified so much that the boy feared he was going to throw up right there and then.

"…tie? God, Mattie, can you hear me?"

 _Oh, right_. Alfred was talking to him, he had almost forgotten since he had moved _(out of the room? Matthew hadn't been able to hear his voice for a moment)._ Now he sounded closer, however, even if his voice had an odd dream-like quality.

 _(But no, he had been back before. He had just changed his pants, hadn't he?)_

Matthew vaguely realized that he was supposed to answer, but what was the question again?

"Mattie, you're scaring me…"

No, that was bad. His brother sounded really concerned, Matthew couldn't allow it.

"I'm fine," he managed to rasp. His voice came out so faint that he could barely hear it, above all that buzzing.

Alfred's disembodied voice scoffed from somewhere above him.

"Are you for real? How are you still trying to pretend that? Jesus, Mattie… I'm pretty sure you passed out for a moment."

"I didn't," Matthew whined petulantly, but he wasn't actually sure. Everything was hurting and spinning too much for him to concentrate.

"…Whatever. I'm not going to argue with you when you're only half-conscious. But God, you're hurt so bad… At least let me prop you up. Maybe you'll be a little more coherent if you're breathing properly? Well, better than this. You almost sound like a hoover right now…"

In spite of the concerned note, Alfred's voice was pleasantly soothing. Matthew let himself be lulled by the comforting tone, and only when his brother's arm slid under his shoulders, he registered the meaning of his words.

"No, please. No moving. Please."

The mere thought had been enough to give Matthew awareness of how much his stomach was churning.

Alfred sighed.

"Mattie, you're not breathing well. I don't know if you can realize this, but you're taking very shallow breaths."

Well, that was his aim. Shallow breaths not to aggravate the searing pain in his ribcage and try to alleviate the nausea. Nice to know that he was succeeding, because it certainly didn't feel like so.

"If I can prop you up, breathing will hurt less. You should know, you've had broken ribs much more times that I have…"

Yes, that was how it worked. In theory. But Matthew was also sporting a concussion and a badly bruised stomach, among other things, and he didn't know how to tell his brother how different it was.

"I'll throw up if you move me," he moaned in the end, "I don't want to throw up…"

 _God_ , he sounded so pathetic… and at the same time, he _really_ didn't want to throw up. It was never pretty, but with broken ribs? Matthew definitely didn't want to experience that again.

Luckily, those seemed to be the right words. Alfred stilled for a moment before a soft ' _Oh_ ' seeped through his lips, and he gently retracted his hand.

"Yes, let's not do that. Sorry," he murmured.

Matthew wanted to answer to convey his gratitude, but he found himself unable to do so, having to concentrate on not vomiting and trying to regulate his breathing at the same time. And, in addition to his torso, his head was throbbing so much that he felt like somebody had taken a hammer to it.

A moment later, the boy felt Alfred's hand gently land on his one, on his stomach. The older nation said nothing, but his warm touch was still a source of comfort, and Matthew found himself drawing strength from it.

 _'Al is upset,'_ he reminded himself, _'I've already broken my promise. I should try to do my best now, at least.'_

Staying completely still helped, however. And so did Alfred's other hand, that was petting his hair. Little by little, Matthew felt the nausea fade, and he allowed himself to relax slightly, in spite of the agonizing pain he was still feeling.

Sometime later, his ears caught the sound of the door opening.

"I'm he— what the bloody hell do you think you're doing, Alfred? If he has some broken ribs, which I suspect, he shouldn't lie down like that."

"He said he was feeling nauseous," Alfred answered before Matthew could have the chance to do so. "As soon as he's feeling better… but I don't want him to throw up, he's already in enough pain as it is."

The hand on Matthew's head started stroking his hair.

"Oh, of course. You're perfectly right." Arthur's voice was softer now, the note of concern more evident. "Did he pass out?"

No, things couldn't go on like that. They were already so much worried …

"No, I'm awake," Matthew answered weakly, forcing his eyes open. "I'm fine now. Sorry."

Alfred's face greeted him with a slight smile. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, just next to Matthew's prone form.

"No, don't be sorry. I shouldn't have forced you."

In spite of the tenderness in his voice, his features were tense. Worried, stressed. And it was all Matthew's fault.

"Are you sure, Matthew?" Arthur asked as he got closer. He looked soberer than he had been in the corridor, but his brow was creased in worry.

Matthew nodded. The pain was still very much present (but it wasn't going to fade anytime soon, in any case), but the nausea had mostly quelled down.

"Do you think you can sit up? You'll feel better," asked Arthur, his eyes sweeping over Matthew's body.

"Yes, I'll be fine," the boy answered quickly, forcing himself to smile.

It wasn't exactly true, but he had managed to hold on the whole morning. He could do that for some other minutes, at least.

Neither Arthur nor Alfred looked convinced, their lips pressed in thin lines, but Alfred still bent over and wrapped one arm around Matthew's shoulders, gently lifting him. The movement made his ribs grate against each other. Matthew couldn't restrain a moan, but soon after, he was leaning down again, this time propped up by some pillows Arthur had arranged against the headboard. And, while every intake of breath still generated spires of agony, it _was_ slightly better than a few moments earlier.

"Thank you."

Matthew managed to muster a weak smile for his older brothers, whose features relaxed slightly, but not completely. Arthur turned to get something – the first aid kit he had left on the side-table, Matthew realized. At the same time, Alfred's hand took hold of the collar of his shirt.

 _'This is the moment of truth.'_

Matthew felt like his nerves were going to snap from the tension, but he had regained a bit of coherence, and he knew that his act could have no flaws if he wanted to convince Arthur and Alfred. He forced himself to smile lightly at Alfred as his brother unbuttoned his shirt, preparing himself for the onslaught.

Sure to his prediction, Alfred gasped loudly as soon as he pushed away the shirt, recoiling at the sight.

"Fuck, Mattie!" he swore, his eyes widening as the colour was drained from his face.

Arthur immediately inched closer, and alarmed expression on his face.

"What… oh, bloody hell!"

His hands immediately reached for Matthew's ribcage, stopping just before touching the black bruises that had blossomed over the white skin.

"Mattie, this is horrible! You… this is really bad! How… how could you even _think_ about hiding these injuries and going on as nothing?!"

Alfred was frantic, his eyes wide.

"It looks worse than it is, it's mostly just external bruising," Matthew lied, but he wasn't actually expecting anybody to believe him.

"This looks awful, Mattie," Alfred retorted, poking a dark bruise on his stomach.

Matthew couldn't restrain a moan at the sudden spark of pain. He wanted to wash away that concerned expression from Alfred's face, but at least, he hadn't questioned his excuse yet.

Arthur reached out to free Matthew's upper body from the jacket and shirt, his forehead furrowed. When the boy yelped in pain at a movement that jostled his left shoulder, the lines deepened even more.

"Matthew, this looks serious," he declared, "Forget the first aid kit, you need a real doctor."

"What?! No, it's fine! I— it's just a couple of cracked ribs, I'm sure there aren't big fractures or anything, I don't really need…"

Matthew was panicking. How was he supposed to keep everything quiet if they went to a hospital? Besides, he had experienced broken ribs countless times before, and most of them, he had just taken care of it on his own.

"Arthur is right," stated Alfred, leaning over him. He brushed Matthew's bangs away from his forehead. "Mattie, this looks really, really bad. You look like you've been trampled by a hoard of buffalos! And don't even try to say anything. It's not just broken ribs, I'm sure that you also have a concussion, I'm willing to bet that your ankle is broken, and look at your stomach, you could be bleeding internally! How could you even manage to hit your stomach that way falling down the stairs is beyond me, but anyway, you really need a doctor, all right?"

Matthew didn't miss the way Arthur stiffened slightly at Alfred's words.

 _'Shit. He doesn't believe it.'_

The man had the presence of not saying anything, however. He simply bit his lower lip before turning to the side table. Matthew tried to crane his neck to see what he was doing, but a sudden spasm of the muscles of his abdomen forced him to close his eyes and grit his teeth. Alfred ran a hand through his hair, his touch so soothing that Matthew almost felt like crying for having ever been angry at him.

"Mattie, you're really hurt," his brother said softly, "Please don't be stubborn. We just…. We don't want to see you suffer this way. Proper medical care will help you feel better and heal faster."

Matthew's stomach twisted at the earnest tenderness in his brother's voice. Alfred was such a caring person… and he was awful for lying to him. But he had no choice, if he wanted to keep him from being hurt.

A damp cloth landed on his left cheekbone. Matthew opened his eyes to see Arthur right in front of him, a determined expression on his face.

 _'He knows I'm lying.'_

Once again, however, the man said nothing, instead, he gently rubbed the cloth against Matthew's cheek. The touch was delicate, but it still ignited sparks of agony. Matthew couldn't restrain a hiss. Distracted by the newly added pain, the boy realized that Arthur had been removing the concealer only when Alfred gasped, paling.

"Mattie?"

"Is there anything else you're trying to hide, before we get you to the hospital?" Arthur asked tiredly.

Matthew lowered his head in shame. Arthur knew, and he was offering him a chance to tell the truth before it was forcefully extracted from him. At the same time, he didn't want to set off Alfred. Matthew's heart clenched at the knowledge of the distress he was causing to his former caretaker.

But Arthur was strong, he would be able to handle it. Besides, Alfred would feel worse than Arthur was feeling now, if he knew the truth.

 _'I'm sorry, Arthur.'_

If only Matthew weren't so pathetically weak, both Arthur and Alfred would be fine. Why did he always end up ruining everything?

"N—no," he muttered, "I mean, I guess I have bruises almost everywhere. I really took a bad fall. I had forgotten about this one…"

His words were cut short when Alfred unexpectedly threw his arms around Matthew, holding him to his chest.

"Mattie, why do you do this?! You don't have to hide that you're injured, we'll take care of you!"

Alfred sounded genuinely distressed, his voice trembling.

 _'Ah, Al, if only you knew…'_

Matthew was already feeling awful for causing him that distress. How had he ever thought that he could bear blaming his brother for something that wasn't even truly his fault?

Arthur sighed and shook his head.

"Never mind that. Come on, let's go. I had Richard displaced to the nearest hospital in case some of us got hurt… It shouldn't take more than half an hour to reach it. I'll give a call ahead, anyway."

Without any other word, the man turned and walked out of the room, his hands already reaching into his pocket for the phone.

Matthew didn't try to protest anymore. The tired resignation in Arthur's voice pierced his heart, and he was too drained to come up with a valid excuse, anyway. Everything hurt too much for that. Feeling more and more pathetic, the boy started to slowly gather his clothes, only to be stopped by Alfred's hand over his one.

"You're already in enough pain. Let's put on something more comfortable, all right?"

It was probably a good idea. Besides, the suit shirt and jacket would clash horribly with the red sweatpants Matthew was now wearing. Not that it mattered, but any thought was welcome if it could distract him from the grim reality.

The boy watched as Alfred rummaged through his messy closed until finally, with a satisfied _'Ahah!'_ , his hands closed over the sleeve of a grey zip-up hoodie.

"This should do," he declared as he helped Matthew into it, minding his injuries.

The boy felt grateful for the fact that Alfred hadn't forced him into a t-shirt first, because that would have hurt – not to mention, the hoodie was soft and warm, and, belonging to his brother, it was a bit too large for him, enveloping him like a fluffy blanket.

"Thank you, Al," he muttered, instinctively curling into the comforting warmth.

Alfred beamed at him. His enthusiasm was faked, but the tenderness in his eyes wasn't.

"That's what big brothers are for," he said, leaning over to brush back Matthew's hair. "Never forget it, 'kay?"

He pressed a quick kiss to Matthew's forehead before lifting the boy in his arms, trying to be as gentle as he could. The sudden onslaught of pain in his abdomen still didn't trump a deep ache in Matthew's chest.

 _'Oh, Alfred…'_

His brother would be completely, utterly devastated if he knew what had happened. Matthew had already gone too far, in letting him find out that he had been injured. He could only hope that Arthur wouldn't talk…

He hid his head against Alfred's shoulder, trying to find comfort in his brother's warmth and familiar smell and divert his mind from the pain that was plaguing both his body and mind.

Arthur was waiting for them in the corridor.

"Let's go," he said immediately, "Richard has been alerted, we won't have to wait." His hand brushed over Matthew's hair. "You just have to hang on for a bit. We'll get you patched up."

Matthew didn't understand the real reason behind Arthur's concern until they got into the car and on the road. An old road whose asphalt was ruined and cracked, making the car bounce every few metres.

For the umpteenth time, a whimper seeped through the boy's gritted teeth as a shake reverberated from the car to his ribs, making them grate against each other. Alfred, who was supporting him in a semi-sitting position, brushed his hair away from his forehead.

"Hang in there. We're almost done," he murmured sweetly, then he addressed Arthur, louder. "Artie, can't you be fucking careful?!"

"I'm trying, you wanker, it's this bloody road! I would like to see how _you_ manage on this!"

Finally, after what felt like a century of bumps and agonized spams, Arthur parked in front of the hospital.

Matthew didn't say anything as Alfred took him out of the car and into his arms, his head was throbbing so much that he could hardly keep his eyes open, and he felt faint, everything around him was oddly detached. He barely realized that Arthur and Alfred had gotten inside the hospital, only vaguely registering the questions of some nurses.

The boy finally started regaining awareness of his surroundings when Alfred started lowering him down on something. Matthew didn't want his brother to leave, but managed to remember at the last moment that Alfred was already worried enough, he mustn't trouble him further. He settled for holding onto the hem of his hoodie. It wasn't _Alfred_ , but kind of felt like him.

Alfred, standing next to the cot, noticed that and gently took his hand.

"The doc is coming to see you, Arthur went with him," he said, squeezing Matthew's hand.

Sure to his words, a moment later, the door slid open only a moment later, revealing the figures of Arthur and Richard Mallory.

Matthew widened his eyes at the sight, suddenly completely alert. The man next to Arthur looked in his sixties, and he was tall and stout, with a wrinkly face and steel grey hair on his balding head. It took Matthew a moment to connect him to the lean clean-faced young man he remembered, whose slick ink-black hair was the talk of the entire nursing staff. The boy suddenly felt an odd sense of vertigo at the realization of how much time had passed.

The man in front of him, however, was still Richard Mallory, he had the same baby blue eyes and the same wry smile.

"Ah, Mr Williams," he greeted, "It's nice meeting you again… I wish the circumstances were more favourable, but it's still nice. Did your brother push you down the stairs again?"

Matthew felt a wave of guilt wash over him at the man's word. The accident he was referring to was actually the first time Richard Mallory, fresh out of medical school, had come into contact with a nation. It was an icy morning of January, and Alfred, heedless of Arthur's warning, had slipped on the frozen stairs. He had managed to regain his footing, but in his flailing, he had hit Matthew, who had taken a spectacular fall off three flight of stairs which had resulted in an open compound fracture to his left arm and a broken collarbone. Richard had been on a walk with his girlfriend, but he had immediately come to Matthew's aid, and Arthur had been so impressed by him that he had decided to take the young man into the number of the few doctors privy of his identity.

The problem didn't lie there, however, but in the half an hour lecture Arthur had given Alfred after Matthew had been stabilized. Alfred had felt so horribly guilty, and Matthew had done nothing to calm down Arthur… He felt Alfred's hand tighten over this.

"Hello, Doctor Mallory," he answered at first, because politeness was important, and he needed to fake being more in control of himself than he actually was. "How do you do? And no, Alfred had nothing to do with this."

It was odd how much that was a lie and, at the same time, it wasn't. Just like that time, decades ago. Matthew's injuries were a result of Alfred's actions, but not intended. Matthew felt horribly guilty for having ever blamed his brother, who was now gently stroking his hair.

A ghost of a smile danced over Mallory's lips, but without any other question, the man started his examination. At first it was easy, even if Matthew was almost reduced to tears when the physician tested his ankle's range of motion. (Not good, apparently. Matthew could have told him that.) Mallory's face, however, darkened when it fell on the dark bruises on the young nation's abdomen.

"A fall down the stairs?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

He only hummed politely when Matthew kept insisting on his version, but didn't look convinced at all. He didn't comment any further, however, and instead ordered a CT scan and X-rays. _("You may think there's no internal bleeding, but please let me be the judge of this. Even if you wouldn't die for it, it would be better to treat it in time.")_

The hours blurred together as Matthew was moved from room to room on a gurney, his body prodded by instruments and soft-spoken nurses. When the boy found himself back to the examination room, with Alfred stroking his hair, he was throughout exhausted, he couldn't have lifted a single finger.

Finally, Richard Mallory raised his head from the results.

"So?" Alfred asked immediately, taking a step in the man's direction.

Mallory took a deep breath.

"Well, the good news is: there is no internal bleeding. He has, however, quite a big hematoma on the wall of his stomach, which is going to be painful for a while. This does evolve in internal bleeding in some cases, but given your ability to heal, I would deem it a very improbable scenario. I would advise you to come straight back to the hospital if the pain seems to be increasing, however."

The last remark had been directed at Matthew, who nodded hurriedly, aware of the way Arthur and Alfred's eyes were trained on his supine form. They didn't believe that he was going to tell, he had given them no reason to believe so. Matthew mentally slapped himself.

"As for the rest, the ankle is broken. It's not a bad break, I would call this barely more than a hairline fracture, but there is also some tendon and ligament damage. There's no need for a cast, but you _do_ need a good brace, and I would keep the weight off it… For at least a week, considering your status. Ten days, maybe. The shoulder is only dislocated, the swelling will go down, but you should put some ice on it and I will give you something to reduce the inflammation. The rest of the bruises will heal on their own, too, it's only a matter of waiting."

The man took a deep breath, and Matthew prepared himself for the verdict.

"Now, on more serious matters. You have a mild concussion. I would keep you in the hospital overnight if you were a human, but since you aren't, it shouldn't be a problem. I would advise you against getting up and moving around on your own for a couple of days, but given your other injuries, it won't be a problem. I probably don't have to tell you that you're going to have a bad headache for a while."

No, he didn't. It was hardly the first time Matthew had a concussion, and he had experienced worse ones. Alfred stroked the palm of his hand with his thumb, and Matthew gratefully tightened his fingers over his brother's ones.

"As for your ribs…" Mallory shook his head. "I would definitely keep you for observation for those if you were human. On the left side, you have serious fractures on your third, fourth, fifth and sixth rib, and hairline fractures to the seventh and eighth. There is also some damage to the cartilage, and hairline fractures to the fifth and sixth rib in your right side."

Matthew heard Alfred gasp as he tightened the hold on his hand. Arthur looked even grimmer than before.

"You know that we don't bind broken ribs anymore because complications arise in many cases."

Yes, Matthew was aware of that. Sometimes he wished they were still in the 60s.

"So, I would refrain from doing so. Things may be different for you, however, so if the pain is unmanageable you might go for binding them. I trust that your brothers know what to do. I would try a bit without any binding, anyway. Just keep a pillow pressed against your body and try to stay in a semi-sitting position – but I probably don't have to tell you this, either. Now, for the pain. Given the gravity of your injuries, I will give you something strong – but Mr Kirkland told me that you've often experienced vomiting as a side effect from opiates, so I will prescribe you an anti-emetic, too."

 _Oh, thanks to Arthur for remembering_. Granted, the way Matthew had been throwing up and whimpering in agony because of the broken ribs that one time was probably difficult to forget, but the boy still felt a strong impulse to hug Arthur.

Mallory had already lined up the prescriptions on the desk. Matthew smiled gratefully at him, but the man hadn't finished talking yet.

"Given that you're a nation, I would expect you to make a full recovery in about ten days, two weeks at most. You should probably get a check-up after that. I will be glad to provide to that, if you're still here, if not, you should contact one of your doctors. I'll send all the reports, if you give me a contact."

Matthew felt the dread blossom across his stomach, almost closing off his throat. _Ten days_. There was no way he was going to be healed in ten days, not when Cuba had clearly meant to hurt him. Arthur and Alfred were going to figure it out in a couple of days, when his injuries wouldn't start healing as much as they should. There was absolutely no way he was going to hide that from them.

Matthew managed to automatically thank Mallory, smiling at him, and thanked Alfred when his brother offered to scoop him up – before Mallory told him to get Matthew's prescription from the hospital pharmacy.

A moment later, Arthur left as well, his phone was ringing, and that left Matthew alone with Richard Mallory. The boy could feel his ears ringing. In spite of that, he turned towards the man, ready to start a conversation, but was surprised to find him frowning.

"Matthew," started Mallory, "I can call you by your first name, can I?"

The boy nodded, confused.

The man sighed, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose before he started talking again.

"Now, I know that you're an immortal being, wiser than I could ever think, and you've been through much more shit than I could ever imagine. However, you have the body of a seventeen-year-old. Looking at you today, I couldn't help but think of my youngest son. He's twenty-one, a bit older than you are, but he was your age not long ago. And I know that it's not my business, you're nations and your rules are different from ours, however… You look like my son did when he came home after some bullies went way overboard."

Matthew felt his body go rigid. He wanted to tell Mallory to stop but couldn't find the words to do so.

"I know that I'm probably overstepping the boundaries here… but I don't think you fell down the stairs, Matthew. It's not my business, and in your line of work, it could be anything… but it worries me that your brothers seem to believe that this is what happened."

The man's eyes were so determined that Matthew had to divert his gaze. He suddenly felt very young, in spite of his real age.

"I won't say anything, but I really think that you should tell them whatever is going on, Matthew. You won't make it, alone."

Matthew was saved from answering by Alfred's God-sent return. A moment later Arthur was back too, and the three of them left before Richard Mallory could talk again to Matthew. His words, however, kept resounding in the boy's ears.

 _'I think you should tell them.'_

Richard Mallory knew nothing. He didn't know what was at stake, or how Matthew had been injured and _why_ he couldn't talk.

And in spite of that, Matthew couldn't help but realize that the man was also partly right: Arthur and Alfred, so helpful and caring, didn't deserve his lies. They were going to be so worried when they realized the truth… how could he keep them from it?

Matthew kept wallowing in his dilemma all the way back, that felt much shorter, now that he had been given proper painkillers. Or maybe it was the action of the painkillers that was making him drowsy, but in any case, Matthew fell in a light slumber even before reaching the room, he was only vaguely aware of Alfred depositing him on the bed.

The boy woke up again only when the pain started to increase, and a whimper was torn from his lips. His throat felt dry, every breath agony again.

"Matthew? You're finally awake… Don't try to talk, you must be feeling awful. You should probably drink something," said Arthur's voice.

A moment later, Matthew managed to focus his eyes on the man's pallid face. He nodded, and a cool glass was pressed against his lips, letting the cold liquid seep into his throat.

"Better?" Arthur asked as soon as the boy had finished drinking.

In spite of Matthew's nod of assent, the man's features didn't relax. For a moment he just contemplated the younger nation's frame, his brow furrowed in concern, then he took a deep breath and started talking slowly.

"Matthew, Alfred had to answer a call and he went outside. I really think we should have a talk."

The boy's stomach suddenly dropped with the weight of lead, but Arthur didn't stop, his eyes shining with determination.

"Matthew, I know that you didn't fall down the stairs. Don't try to deny it. Somebody – some _bastard_ did this to you. Don't deny it, Matthew. I'm not stupid. Now, I can imagine why you would keep this from Alfred – him flying off the handle isn't something easy to deal with. However, this isn't the right thing to do. I won't tell Alfred immediately if you don't want me to. We'll come up with a solution. But Matthew – you have to tell me. I can't let this slide."

Matthew's head was spinning. He couldn't tell Arthur – but he couldn't come up with a convincing lie, either. His brain felt muddled, his tongue frozen.

"I…"

He couldn't imagine a worse situation. But of course, fate loved surprising him.

"What the actual fuck, Matthew."

Both Arthur and Matthew started, instinctively turning towards the door. Alfred was standing in front of it, pale and wide-eyed. They hadn't heard him come in – but he had heard everything, and his features were starting to shift from shock to anger.

"What. The. Fuck."

It was a dream. A nightmare. It _had_ to be. But Matthew couldn't wake up, and Alfred slowly made his way towards him until they were almost face to face.

"Alfred…" Arthur started saying, getting up from his position at the edge of the mattress, but the younger nation ignored him.

"So _this_ is what happened." Alfred sounded shocked, hurt. "I found it strange that you would get so hurt by falling down the stairs, but _I believed you_!"

"Al…"

"No, don't try to deny it! This is so obvious… do you think I'm stupid?"

"Al, no, that's not…"

"And why the hell didn't you tell me, then?" Alfred wasn't yelling, but his clenched fists were trembling. "Somebody hurt you, Mattie, why would you lie to me? Do you trust me so little?"

"Alfred…"

Once again, America ignored Arthur's voice.

"Of course I trust you, Al!" Matthew pleaded desperately, "But… I just fell…"

"This isn't true, Mattie, and you know it!" Alfred's outburst made Matthew's start, but his older brother took a deep breath and managed to calm himself down. "Why didn't you tell me, then? You're my little brother. I worry for you. And clearly, I have good reasons to! I thought that at least I could trust you, but if you lie like this…"

Matthew didn't know what to do. How to answer. _'I trust you, Al. I just don't want to hurt you!'_ he wanted to scream, but that would ruin everything. He could only watch as Alfred's face paled at a second realization.

"This… this isn't even the first time, is it?" he murmured, his posture tensing. "A moose… Oh, I was such a fool. A _moose_! What was the name of the _moose_ that hurt you, uh? Russia? Who else?"

"N—no. There… there's nobody, Al!"

Matthew's voice, however, sounded pathetic even to his own ears, and he certainly didn't convince Alfred.

"Why are you still lying?!" his brother screamed, "Do you trust me so little?! I'm not an idiot! WHY—"

"ALFRED, CALM. DOWN!"

Arthur hadn't touched the younger nation, but Alfred recoiled as if he had been struck. His eyes darted from Matthew to Arthur for a moment, then his features smoothened down in a mask of stone.

"Whatever," he hissed coldly, "I'm clearly not appreciated here. Matthew, once you decide to stop being in denial about this, just call and I'll come."

He sounded completely calm, but Matthew knew him. He knew him enough to realize how much he was actually hurting. And Matthew was hurting with him, too.

"Alfred, wait!"

But his brother didn't turn back to him and slammed the door closed behind his shoulders.

"Al…" Matthew whispered.

He felt awful, he wanted to cry. He hadn't managed to hide his injuries from his brother, and now he had hurt him. Once again, Alfred was suffering because of him, and Matthew didn't know what to do.

He turned to Arthur, lost, but the man just looked at him.

"Matthew, he'll be back. But you know how he is, you know how much your trust is important to him. He feels betrayed. You should tell him."

Matthew knew it. He knew even better than Arthur. But – he couldn't tell Alfred. Because at least, now he was angry at _Matthew_. And if he knew the truth, Alfred would be angry at himself. Which would be worse. No matter what, Matthew couldn't afford it.

 _…Right?_

 **(word count: 8,184)**

* * *

 **Notes :**

I headcanon that nations aren't public knowledge, only some people in the government are aware of them. Aside from them, they might have told some other people, among which some trusted doctors, since their healing rate is different from humans.  
In regard to this, I think that nations heal quicker than humans, but considerably less so if their injuries are willingly caused by other nations.

I have no real medical traning, I hope there weren't too many inaccuracies! English is also still not my first language, feel free to point out if you spotted anything. :)

Next chapter should be up in about a week too, there will be a part from Alfred's POV and Francis will make his appearance too, along with other characters (but their role won't be as important as Francis's).

Please comment, I would love to know what you guys think of this!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes :** I'm so, so sorry for taking so long! Long story short, I basically have time to write only during the weekend. Last weekend, however, my parents and siblings came to visit me (I've been staying abroad) so I spent all the time with them, and the previous one something unexpected came up, and I didn't have enough time to write, either. I hope it won't happen again!

Moving to more important things, I thank anybody who has followed and/or favourited this story, and a special thanks go to those who reviewed. I hope you'll continue enjoying this!

 **Warnings:** I don't have medical training, so there might be inaccuracies about this. Entire dialogues in italics mean that the characters are talking in a language different from English.

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

To say that Alfred F Jones was angry would have been an understatement. He was – completely livid. As he stormed through the corridor, his feet thumping loudly on the floor, he couldn't keep himself from replaying in his mind the previous minutes.

The thing was, Alfred wasn't stupid. He was _far_ from it, and he had immediately suspected that there was something wrong with Matthew, aside from the obvious. But Matthew was even smarter than him. With his trembling lips and huge eyes, he was the perfect portrait of innocence. And Alfred inevitably fell for it. Every. Single. Time.

 _'Goddamnit, Mattie, why?'_

Alfred clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. He felt like punching something, but there was nothing in the vicinity that could bear his strength.

Alfred only wanted the best for his younger brother. He wanted him to be happy and safe. Why couldn't he see it?

And it _hurt_. Because Alfred had been so sure that Matthew trusted him… instead, it wasn't like that. He had been going on behind his back, and Alfred was starting to wonder how many times that had already happened. How much was Matthew hiding?

The worst thing was that Alfred couldn't understand _why_. He knew that his little brother was modest to a fault, that he didn't want to bother others with his problems. Not asking for help even when he desperately needed it was a perfectly normal behaviour, coming from Matthew. It was one of the reasons Alfred tried to keep a close eye on him, whenever he could.

But _why_ would he keep lying after he had been discovered?! Why _to him_ , especially.

Alfred couldn't delete from his mind the sight of Matthew's wan, horrified face when he had realized that he had been listening to the conversation. The way he kept trying to deny, in spite of having been just caught red-handed. While _he had been about to tell Arthur everything_.

It hurt more than Alfred could have imagined, an iron-grip squeezing his chest, because it meant only one thing: _Matthew didn't trust him_.

What made everything even more confusing – and in turn, intensified the pain tenfold – was that Alfred still had no clue of the reason. His mind was frantically running through the memories of all their conversations, the time spent together, trying to detect lost hints, but Alfred was completely sure that Matthew had never given any indication of not trusting him. Excluding the times they had been arguing, of course, but those didn't count, none of them actually meant what he said in those circumstances. Or did they? Alfred wasn't so sure anymore.

"Fuck this shit!" he swore loudly, swinging a fist through the air.

Alfred wanted nothing more than going to a gym and work out against a punching bag until he was so exhausted that he could barely stand, but he was still wearing a formal suit, and all his clothes were in his bedroom. With Matthew, who was the last person he wanted to see, at the moment.

And to say he had been so worried for him until a few minutes earlier, Arthur had basically had to kick Alfred out of the room to make him answer that phone call… The irony of the situation wasn't lost to the boy.

"Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it!" he kept swearing under his breath, stomping his feet as he walked.

His eyes caught a glimpse of a foreign colour on the grey floor. A red pen, probably dropped by somebody after one of the meetings. Alfred kicked it with all the strength he could muster and watched as the pen ricocheted against the wall opposite to him before it flew over the railing, tumbling down.

"Hey, watch out!" an angry voice called from downstairs.

Alfred leaned over the railing in time to see Switzerland glare at him, but before he could come up with an answer, the other nation scoffed and strode away, shaking his head as he muttered something under his breath.

Alfred wanted to yell at him. Kicking that innocent pen had done nothing to quell his rage, he could feel the blood pounding in his ears. And it had been only a pen, for God's sake, hardly enough to hurt anybody, why couldn't Switzerland just let people be, for one time? Alfred opened his mouth to yell at the retreating back just how he felt about his stuck-in-the-mud attitude, and maybe –

 _What the hell am I doing?_

Alfred straightened up abruptly, clenching his hands around the railing. Switzerland had absolutely nothing to do with his anger, had he truly been about to yell at him?

 _Fuck it. I really need to calm down._

He couldn't start bursting out at random people just because he was upset. That would just prove Matthew's point, that he wasn't to be trusted.

Alfred shook his head, forcing himself to take a deep breath. He absolutely needed to do something to calm down, he couldn't go on like that. But what… His eyes widened with a sudden realization.

Alfred didn't need to calm down, actually. He just needed to aim his rage towards the right person.

The person who had dared to lay his hands on Matthew, for example. Alfred hadn't forgiven the younger nation for his deception, but that temporary rage didn't change anything in the fact that Matthew was his little brother, his responsibility. _Nobody_ was allowed to hurt him, no matter the circumstances. Whether Matthew trusted him or not, Alfred wasn't going to let that person walk away unpunished.

 _'Too bad, Mattie. You don't want to tell him who it was? Well, I'll find out on my own. And then you'll realize how stupid you have been in trying to hide something from me.'_

The new sense of purpose cleared Alfred's mind, allowing him to finally release his grip on the bannister. Small indentations decorated the marble where his fingers had been, but the nation barely felt a twinge of remorse. Arthur had enough resources to take care of that on his own, there was no need for him to worry, Alfred had far more important things to think about.

The young nation was already halfway down the stairs before he realized that he had forgotten an important detail: he _still_ didn't know who was to blame, nor how to find it out.

It was exactly the same problem as the last time Matthew had been hurt, Alfred didn't have the slightest idea of who could have done something like that, seeing that all the other nations either ignored Canada or liked him. It wasn't like Canada didn't have any enemies, but _Matthew_? Matthew was one of the sweetest, kindest souls that inhabited the planet, and everybody noticed it immediately. Alfred couldn't think of a single person who disliked his little brother after talking to him for even a few minutes. But then, who…

 _Russia._

That was the first answer that went through Alfred's mind. He could almost hear Arthur scoff, shaking his head. _"Russia has changed,"_ Arthur would tell him, _"He has done a lot of bad things in the past, I will concede you this, but it's completely different now. You need to let go."_

And Arthur would have been right. Alfred had seen the way Russia had started opening up after the end of the Cold War. He had seen how genuine the smile on his face could be when he interacted with other people, how much Russia actually _liked_ being helpful. He had seen him laugh, his eyes shining with joy instead of malice when he slid on the ice. Alfred himself had been surprised to find out how pleasant spending some time around Russia could be, when they weren't at each other's throat. And Matthew knew that, too. He had been one of the first nations to reach out to Russia, thanks to their shared passion for hockey. And, for how much Alfred would have liked to deny it, he knew that the camaraderie born from the sport was slowly starting to bloom into a shaky friendship.

At the same time, Alfred also knew a lot more than other nations did. He had sworn secrecy, unable to object to Tolys's cold, old eyes, but he would never forget what he had accidentally seen. The web of thin silver scars marring the pale skin of Tolys's muscular back. Tolys's soft smile. His eyes, so old and full of acceptance, that had made Alfred suddenly feel so terribly young.

 _"It's all right,"_ Tolys had answered to America's eager offer for revenge, _"It was a long time ago. And Russia isn't actually cruel, you know? He had never meant to hurt me, he just didn't know any better. He has been through so much… but he has changed, now. He's better, he would never do something like this again."_

Alfred would never be able to forget those words, because he wasn't sure that somebody could actually change from something like that. Russia could still hurt people without meaning to. People like Matthew, who was as kind as Tolys but without Lithuania's age and maturity to help him deal with the situation.

Alfred felt the blood run cold in his veins. He could see it clearly now: Russia, maybe a bit tipsy, involving Canada in one of his cruel games. His hands descending on the boy's smaller body, hitting, breaking, while the faint smile that curved his lips never wavered. And Matthew, his sweet little brother, not wanting to get him in trouble because _'he didn't know better'_.

"Damnit, Mattie," Alfred swore under his breath, clenching his fists.

Well, unfortunately for Russia, America wasn't a forgiving person, especially when it came to his little brother. He didn't _care_ how much the older nation has suffered in the past: he wasn't a child, he was still responsible for his actions.

Now, he only had to find him. Alfred vaguely recalled the area he had seen Russia leave for the previous days and he started striding in that direction with a brisk pace, not wanting to lose a single precious instant. _(an instant that would have been spent dwelling on why, in spite of everything, his little brother had elected to hide the truth from him. On why he couldn't trust…)_

Alfred didn't even acknowledge Poland when he passed by him, his mind already projected on the moment he would finally confront Russia and make him pay for every single bruise that he had inflicted on his little brother's pale skin. Only when he was close to the wanted area Alfred slowed down, realizing that he didn't actually know where Russia's room was, nor if the nation would be there.

Luck was on his side, however. Just a few steps into the floor's lounge, Alfred's eyes fell Ukraine, who was comfortably sitting on a sofa, apparently engrossed in a book whose title Alfred couldn't read.

 _'She probably knows where Russia is. Asking her would be better.'_

The young nation stopped dead, barely refraining himself from directly addressing the woman. Russia was Ukraine's younger brother, he had realized suddenly. And that was something that wasn't going to change, no matter what.

Alfred was reasonably sure that Ukraine wasn't involved in what had happened to Matthew. Not only the woman was generally not inclined to use any kind of violence, she and Matthew were good friends. There was no way she would purposefully harm him. But if she were to choose between Matthew and her own younger brother, what would she do? Alfred knew what the answer would be, in his case, and it was probably the same for Ukraine. She wouldn't enjoy it, most likely, but she would cover for her younger brother if she knew Alfred meant to harm him. He needed to tread carefully.

After taking a deep breath and schooling his features in a smooth smile, Alfred finally approached the reading woman.

"Hello, Iryna!" he said brightly, offering her a white-toothed smile. "How are you doing?"

Ukraine immediately raised her eyes from the book, startled, then her features softened when she recognized the person in front of her. Alfred took note of the fact that, even if her smile was as gentle and genuine as usual, the young woman's eyes looked slightly duller, tired, and the skin under them was decorated with faint bags.

"Oh, hello, America. I'm fine, having an afternoon of relaxing was very nice."

America hummed along, tilting his head to a side. How could he casually mention Russia in the conversation without arousing any suspicion?

"Yep," he remarked, trying to take time. "I could certainly use one! Man, these conferences are so exhausting, and after yesterday... I mean, I guess a lot of people needed it. I didn't stay for long, so I didn't see how bad it got…"

Alfred let his voice trail off, hoping that Ukraine would take the bait. He was sure that she hadn't been drunk, she looked merely tired, not hungover, besides, he had never seen Ukraine even tipsy before, she had an impressing tolerance for alcohol, even more so considering that she was a woman. Maybe she would casually mention something that would incriminate Russia…

Ukraine chuckled.

"Oh, I guess I could say it got pretty bad at the end, there were so many drunk people… but it was still nice. Nobody got overly violent, actually, it was mostly drunken singing and attempt at dancing… and I'm sure that nothing else happened, we were among the last to leave…"

"We?" Alfred inquired immediately.

Maybe, it was just Ukraine and Belarus, but even that could give him some more information…

"Vanya, Natasha and I," Ukraine answered, shattering his reasoning. "You know, there was a replica of _Notre Dame de Paris_ yesterday on tv… We stayed in Natasha's room to watch it, even if it ended pretty late."

Which explained Ukraine's visible tiredness, Alfred noted. But…

"Even Russia?" he asked, unable to hide his surprise.

Ukraine offered him one her sweet, maternal smiles.

"Oh, of course. Vanya loves musicals, and _Notre Dame de Paris_ is a favourite of his… He couldn't move his eyes from the screen. And after that, we all stayed in Natasha's room to sleep. It was so nice… We hadn't done something like that in a while, we're all so busy these days, it's always wonderful when we have some time to spend like that, don't you think?"

Alfred nodded automatically, recognizing the truth in her words, even if they made his chest clench. He could completely relate to that feeling, all the occasions he had to spend some time with Matthew were jealously treasured. ' _But Mattie…'_

And that wasn't the only problem. If Russia had truly been with Ukraine, then he wasn't the one who had hurt Matthew… unless it had happened after his sisters had fallen asleep, but the timing didn't match, it would have been too late… Alfred felt himself deflating.

"Uhuh…" he murmured in assent, the smile never slipping from his face, but suddenly he didn't want to talk to Ukraine anymore. Not only he had more important things to worry about, her genuine happiness was reminding him more and more of his own disastrous situation.

"Well, I have to go now," he declared, hoping that his smile didn't seem too forced. "Have a nice afternoon!"

Alfred turned and walked away from Ukraine even before the woman could answer him, afraid to betray himself somehow.

Which was _stupid,_ he realized a few corridors away. Ukraine had been present for most of the party, maybe she had noticed something strange, she could have helped him… and at the same time, Alfred really didn't feel like going back to get her, he wasn't sure he would manage to tell what had happened without breaking down. Now that he didn't have a culprit to concentrate on anymore, his mind couldn't help but flash back to Matthew, to the way he had kept trying to deny everything. Alfred's chest clenched painfully at the memory of his brother's panic. _Why_ was it so wrong for him to know? He only wanted to help, and Matthew knew that, he _had_ to…

Alfred violently shook his head, clenching his teeth until they almost hurt.

 _'Now it's not the right time for this. You need to focus!'_

No matter how much he tried, however, he still couldn't come up with another plausible suspect: aside from Russia, Alfred knew nobody else who might have motivations to hurt Canada.

The nation kept walking aimlessly through the hotel's corridors, his head lowered and his steps brisk, barely acknowledging the people he passed by, his mind completely focused on trying to analyse the last days. Maybe there was a detail he was missing, some harsh words against Canada, a hostile glare… but no matter what, Alfred's mind stayed stubbornly empty.

There was only one solution Alfred could actually think about, only one person who held the key to the whole truth. And that person had refused to make him part of it.

 _'Why, Mattie?'_

It wasn't _fair._ Alfred always told Matthew anything, there was nobody he trusted more with his secrets. And that… that should be a _reciprocal_ thing, wasn't it? Then _why_ …

Alfred realized that his hands were trembling, a big lump seemed to have taken residence inside his throat.

 _'No. Stop thinking about the why. This isn't important now. It's the who…'_

Who could have been literally anybody aside from Alfred himself and Arthur, at that point. Nothing made sense anymore, so he couldn't exclude anybody, not even people who wouldn't ever lay their hands on Matthew. Which was everybody aside from Russia, so who…

Alfred's eyes widened as a sudden realization washed over him. He froze abruptly, straightening. He wasn't wrong. It _could_ be anybody, actually. Because…

Alfred's train of thoughts was suddenly interrupted by a frantic voice calling out his name.

"Alfred!"

The boy whirled around, startled, just in time to see Arthur approaching him, looking slightly out of breath and with his cheeks flushed.

"Artie?"

The man didn't acknowledge his words. Instead of stopping in front of him, he closed the distance between them and cupped Alfred's chin with his hand, turning the boy's head from side to side as if to examine it. Alfred didn't protest, tongue-tied by the confusion at Arthur's unexpected gesture.

Finally, the young man retreated his hand and sighed, his shoulders slumping.

"Oh, thank God…" he sighed, closing his eyes. "You aren't hurt, you're fine…"

"Uhm, what?" was the only thing Alfred could ask, too surprised to come up with something else.

Arthur took a deep breath before opening his eyes and raising his head again, his features tightening with rage.

"What do you mean _what_?! I should be asking you this, you bloody wanker! What were you _thinking_ , running away like that?! I was afraid you were going to murder somebody, or even worse, get yourself beaten to a bloody pulp too! I ran into Poland, who told me you looked like you were planning a murder, do you have any idea of—"

"Geez, Artie, I didn't kill anybody, don't get your panties in a twist!" Alfred interrupted him, clicking his tongue. "And I know it wasn't Russia, anyway. You might as well share what you know…"

Arthur's eyes widened in surprise. Alfred was already tasting the victory, but the words that came out the older nation's mouth weren't the confession he was expecting.

"Not Russia? How…" the man shook his head. "You already know more than I do, then. I know absolutely nothing."

Alfred opened his mouth to reply, anger surging in his chest at the second deception, but Arthur raised a hand in a placating manner.

"I really don't know anything. Matthew wasn't about to tell me when you came in, in fact, he kept insisting that he had merely fallen down the stairs, I could do nothing to make him talk. Now—"

"He… he didn't?" Alfred interrupted him, his voice shaking slightly.

For some reason, Arthur's words seemed to have lifted a weight off his chest. Of course, Matthew had still lied, but Alfred wasn't the only one he had lied to. The only one he didn't trust. It shouldn't have, but somehow, that knowledge made everything better.

Arthur shook his head.

"Of course not," he said briskly, "That boy is as stubborn as mule. But never mind this, _how_ did you find out that it wasn't Russia? You don't look injured, which I guess is more than I was expecting, but I swear to God, Alfred, if you've managed to anger Russia…"

"But I didn't even talk to him!" Alfred protested, pouting.

"…I really hope that it wasn't something too bad because he might have changed but for God's sake Alfred you – wait, come again?"

Arthur's eyes widened as he finally registered the information.

Alfred scoffed.

"I didn't talk to him," he repeated, rolling his eyes. "I talked with Ukraine, and Russia was with her and Belarus the whole time, so it wasn't him… and yes, I'm sure, she didn't make it up to protect him, she didn't even know that I was looking for him."

Arthur's eyebrows looked about to eat up his hairline.

"Oh…" he murmured, shaking his head. "Oh. That's… that's excellent, Alfred. That was really good thinking. I'm sorry I flew off the handle like that… it was really a brilliant idea."

Arthur sounded like he couldn't fully believe his words. Alfred felt a pang of hurt at his surprise, but on the other hand, it was true that he would have just attacked Russia if he hadn't run into Ukraine first. Alfred thought it was perfectly justified, his little brother had been hurt after all, but was that the reason Matthew hadn't wanted him to know?

Something of his reasoning must have shown on his face, because Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"But that wasn't planned, was it? You just happened to run into Ukraine first…"

Alfred's awkward silence was as good as an answer. Arthur sighed, shaking his head.

"…well, never mind. Thank God for small mercies, I suppose. I'm too tired for this…"

"Wait!" Alfred said suddenly, realizing what had been nagging at a corner of his mind since he had seen Arthur. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you…"

Arthur sighed again, a soft, weary sound.

"I'm here because your brother _begged_ me to come after you. He was out of himself with worry, he wouldn't calm down…"

"And you left him alone?!"

In spite of the anger, Alfred could feel a bubble of concern swelling up in his chest.

"Well, enlighten me, then: what was I supposed to do? He wasn't calming down, he would have ended up hurting himself further! I made sure that he took his medications, you know they make him drowsy, they should keep him in bed…" Arthur stopped himself and took a deep breath. When he talked again, his voice was considerably sweeter. "I know that you're angry, and you have good reasons to, but Matthew cares for you more than you can imagine. And his lie might not have even do anything with you in particular…"

"He might be trying to protect the person who attacked him because he or she was drunk," finished Alfred. He had gotten to the same conclusion only a few moments before. That didn't erase the fact that Matthew had lied to him, but it _did_ make it a bit better. Enough that Alfred was starting to feel slightly guilty for running off like that. "It sounds like something Mattie would do. Do you have any idea…"

Arthur shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

"I was hungover this morning, I didn't have a good look around. I don't even really know who was actually drunk."

And neither did Alfred, because he hadn't bothered to check. Silence fell between the two nations.

"Are you ready to go back now?" Arthur asked in the end, "We need to find the culprit, but we've already left Matthew alone for long enough. If he needed something… I've already told you, this isn't him not trusting you. It has most likely nothing to do with you."

Alfred would have really liked to believe Arthur. He almost did, but he knew his older brother too well to miss the slight catch in his voice.

"But you think that it might also have something to do with me personally, don't you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

Arthur stiffened.

"Not in the way you think," he replied cautiously. He took a deep breath, seemingly trying to decide what to say, then looked at Alfred in the eyes. "I think that Matthew trusts you, Alfred. He trusts and values you more than anybody else, probably. However… his denial about this whole thing _did_ seem to be targeted specifically at you. He wasn't nearly as nervous when he was talking to me alone, even if he still refused to tell me anything. And this is why I think… That somebody might have threatened him to make sure he wouldn't talk."

Alfred felt a sudden weight plummet in his stomach at Arthur's words.

"What—what do you mean?!" he asked, unable to hide the trembling in his voice. "B—but… Mattie wouldn't just do that, he's not a coward, he wouldn't refuse to tell me only because somebody threatened to beat him up if he did, it…"

"Not him," Arthur interrupted him, a deadly serious expression sculpted on his pale features. "You. I think that somebody might have threatened to hurt _you_ if he said anything."

Alfred's heart missed a beat. He could feel the blood thumping in his ears.

"No. No, it cannot be this," he stammered desperately, locking eyes with Arthur. "It—it doesn't make sense, Mattie knows that I can take care of myself, he wouldn't…"

And at the same time, it did. It would be just like Matthew, to refuse to talk for the slightest chance that Alfred might be injured. Arthur's solemn expression told Alfred that he had reached the same conclusion.

"It…" Alfred had to swallow, his throat felt dry, almost completely obstructed by a big lump. "We _need_ to go back to Mattie. He's the only one who knows what happened, and… we just… need to talk."

Arthur merely nodded.

Without wasting another instant, Alfred started walking as fast as he could towards his bedroom, immediately followed by Arthur. The situation wasn't much different from the first time he had stormed out of the room, but this time he was walking towards Matthew, not away from him. And the icy grip that clenched his chest was due to a completely different cause.

 _"Oh, Mattie… Please, tell me that Arthur is wrong about this…"_

But he most likely wasn't, and there was nothing that scared Alfred more than that.

* * *

Matthew had to get up. He _knew_ that he had to get up. And in spite of that, his legs felt weak, refusing to answer his commands, and his head was pounding and spinning so much that everything around him was fading in and out of focus, in tune with the waves of nausea that were washing over him. To make matter worse, his abdomen had turned into a single mass of throbbing agony, he couldn't even tell anymore if the pain that surged at each shallow breath came from his ribs or his stomach. No, hiding the painkillers inside his cheek instead of swallowing them hadn't been a good idea, but on the other hand, they made him too dizzy, he wouldn't have been able to rise from the bed and walk had he actually taken them.

And at the same time, did it even matter? The result hadn't changed. Only a floor from Alfred's bedroom, Matthew had been forced to slide down against the wall, unable to take another single step before passing out.

A strangled sound, something between a pained whimper and a sob, bubbled up Matthew's throat.

 _'It's over. I've ruined everything again.'_

Alfred and Arthur, or Arthur at least, would go back to the room to find him missing, and would worry even more because of it. To make matters worse, Matthew hadn't even managed to carry out his task.

 _'What was I even thinking?'_

It had seemed a good idea at the time – okay, not really, but the best his panicked and pained mind could come up with – and, once again, everything had been washed down the drain. Matthew wanted to cry. He buried his head in his knees, but it did nothing to ease the spinning or the buzzing in his ears.

Which was probably why he realized about the steps and voices approaching him only when it was too late to salvage the situation in any way.

 _"…maionese, capisci?! Maionese!"_ **[1]**

Matthew's heart missed a beat.

 _'Oh God, not him. Everybody but him.'_

He usually didn't mind Romano, but he _did_ tend to be a bit harsh. And in his current state, there was no way Matthew was going to be able to deal with it.

 _"Lovi, lo so, ma non c'era bisogno di…"_ **[2]**

And he wasn't even alone. But maybe they wouldn't notice him, Canada was often invisible to other nations after all…

 _"No che non lo sai! Non capisci, io ho visto quella salsa bianca e mi sembrava formaggio, che cosa avrei dovuto pensare?! Soltanto dei barbari ricoprirebbero completamente un piatto di pasta di maionese!_ _E po— che cazzo?!"_ **[3]**

Romano had just rounded the corner and stopped short a few feet from Matthew's form. Just the time Matthew didn't need him to, of course.

 _"Lovi, che cosa – oh!"_ **[4]**

At Italy's soft gasp, Matthew forced himself to raise his head. The two nations were standing in front of him, and even through his blurred vision, he could make out the identical expressions of shocked concern that warped their features. The boy found himself thinking that Italy and Romano looked shockingly similar, like that.

The silence was short-lived. Italy quickly regained control of himself and closed the distance between him and the younger nation, kneeling in front of him.

"Canada?" he asked, lifting his hand until it was hovering over Matthew's face. "Oh, Canada, you look horrible! What happened to you? Are you sick? Where does that bruise come from?!"

Matthew managed to muster a weak smile.

"It's nothing. I—I'm not sick, I just wasn't paying attention and fell down the stairs…"

Italy gasped, his eyes wide. Before he could say anything, however, Romano scoffed, leaning over Matthew.

"Stairs, uh? Nice hook they have for stairs…"

In spite of the way he was frowning, there was an evident note of concern in his face. Matthew cringed, not knowing how to answer.

"Lovi! That wasn't nice!"

Italy was glaring at his brother. That was… unexpected, to say at least. Matthew wasn't even sure that it had actually happened, maybe he had only dreamed it. His suspicion got even stronger when Italy turned again towards him, his expression soft and his eyes full of participation.

"Sorry about him. It does look bad, though… you need to see a doctor."

"I already have," Matthew muttered pathetically.

"Well, you need to get back to your room then!" Italy insisted, his wide eyes trained on Matthew's face. "And… Lovi and I could help you, but we can't carry you, and you can't walk, can you?"

"Of course he can't," Romano scoffed before Matthew had the chance to answer, "Look at him!"

Matthew wanted to retort, but Romano was right. He was only barely managing to stay conscious, let alone walk. And everything was hurting too much for him to move even a single inch.

"I know, I know…" muttered Italy, "Ah, I'll go get your brother, all right? He's strong enough to carry you, it will be all right!"

"NO!"

Matthew's outburst made both Italy and Romano start, and the effort made his head spin so badly that for a moment everything seemed to fade. He needed to do that, however.

"Please, don't call my brother," Matthew begged, struggling to find words through the haze of pain. "Just… please, don't."

"What the fuck?! Why…"

"Lovi!" cried out Italy, before turning again to Matthew.

"It's all right," he said in a soothing voice, "Not calling Alfred, then. Not if you don't want me to. But we have to call somebody… Lovi was a bit harsh right now, I'm sorry about this, but he's right: we can't carry you, and you can't walk… we have to ask for somebody's help."

"Not Alfred," Matthew answered hurriedly, his brain stuck on the thought of how much his brother would worry if he found him out of the bed. "Or Arthur. Please, they don't need to know anything…"

Matthew realized that he was almost sobbing, his voice wavering as dread crawled up his churning stomach.

Romano swore under his breath, but before he could say anything else Italy spoke again, his voice so gentle that it almost hurt.

"Okay, no America or England. I promise that we won't say anything to them. But who do you want us to call, then?"

"Francis," Matthew managed to grind out, in a pathetic sound that was something between a sob and a moan. "Please, I… can you get Francis, please?"

That was the main reason Matthew had left the room in the first place, but he had almost forgotten, so focused on the need to let Alfred in the dark. His brain felt like wool, even putting together the simplest train of thoughts was something close to impossible. That was why he needed Francis. Matthew's chest ached in anticipation to the anguish he would cause to the older nation, but he had surrendered to the fact that he couldn't save the situation on his own. And Francis would understand… he would help him come up with a convincing lie, he would agree with him on why Alfred absolutely mustn't know.

Italy hummed, a soft, soothing sound.

"Okay," he said gently, smiling. "I'll go get him, all right? I think I know where he is, he was talking to Antonio only a few minutes ago…"

His hand rose to pet Matthew's head. It was small but pleasantly warm, and the touch gentle.

"It's going to be all right, little one. Don't worry."

A part of Matthew's mind felt a slight twinge of indignation for the appellative Italy had just used – he was at least five centimetres taller than the other nation, and he was sure that Italy was barely older than Alfred in terms of human age – but at the same time, he sort of understood it. Italy was _old_. Ancient, almost, if compared to Canada. Something in his presence made the nation feel terribly young, but it wasn't a completely unpleasant feeling. As he looked at Italy's back walking away, he realized that it almost made him feel safe. Or maybe it was because he knew that Francis was going to come.

Romano's deep sigh jerked him back to reality. Matthew turned his head towards him, his stomach sinking at the memory of the hostility Romano had previously met his words with. Much to his surprise, the young man's expression was softer.

"Do you need to lie down?" he asked. His voice wasn't as gentle as Italy's, but he was clearly trying. "Or do you need help in any other way? You're as white as a ghost, you look like you're about to faint."

 _'Well, that's because I am.'_

But Matthew couldn't say it out loud, nor could he explain how, in spite of how appealing it sounded, lying down wouldn't have helped with his injured ribs. He elected to shake his head, but that only increased the dizziness and blurry vision. He had to close his eyes.

"Hey. Stay with me."

A hand, in no way different from Italy's, cupped his cheek. Matthew realized that Romano was now crouching next to him.

"I'm fine," he managed to mutter, desperately trying not to whimper.

Romano huffed again, but for a while he said nothing more, something Matthew was immensely grateful for. He was just starting to relax when he heard Romano take a sharp intake of breath.

"You know, you're not helping anybody this way."

Taken by surprise, Matthew squinted his eyes open. Romano wasn't looking at him, but his features were tightened in a frown.

"Based on the way you panicked when Feliciano proposed to call your brother, I'll take an educated guess: the person who beat you up did it because America had pissed him off, and now you don't want to tell him because he would feel bad."

Matthew chocked, his heart missing a beat.

"That's not…" he tried to retort, his eyes wide, but Romano's harsh glare made his words trail off in a soft whimper.

"This is exactly what happened. Don't try to deny it, I can see it in your face." Romano stopped to take a deep breath, and when he resumed talking, his voice wasn't as harsh as it had been before. "Listen, I know your brother. He's a good guy, and he always has good intentions. However… he's way to forceful, and he doesn't realize how much he pisses people off. And yesterday, spirits were running high because of the alcohol… somebody must have thought that it was the right time to have revenge on him, starting from his little brother. Am I right?"

 _'No, you're not!'_ Canada wanted to scream, but he was frozen in place, he had to remind himself to breathe. He could only look at the older nation, wide-eyed, like a deer caught in the headlights.

Romano took his silence as an assent.

"Listen, I know that this is hard for you. You don't want to see your brother hurt, and I understand this. In case you have forgotten, I have a brother as well, I know how this work. But… take this from somebody who had done a lot of bad shit. Feliciano and I haven't always agreed on everything, and we've both done our share of shitty things. And let me tell you: _you're not helping your brother this way_. You think you're acting all noble and shit, but the truth is that you can't bear to see your brother in pain. But this is just cowardly. You not telling him won't change the truth of what happened. America _needs_ to realize that his actions have consequences, or he will keep making the same mistakes over and over. But he won't if you don't tell. It's not easy, I know. Seeing our brothers in pain is the last thing we want. But this still needs to be done. Is it going to hurt? Of course it is. He's going to be fucking destroyed by this. But he still needs to hear it."

Finally, Romano stopped talking and he stood up to lean against the wall next to Matthew.

The younger nation was paralyzed by shock, his heart thumping wildly in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears. Romano was right: it was all his fault. All the anguish that he had been trying to suppress suddenly crawled up his stomach and enveloped his whole being, making him unable to move a single muscle. If anything happened to Alfred, or if in his fury he hurt somebody else, it would be on him. Matthew could only pray that Arthur had found him quickly, and at the same time, he needed him not to be back yet, or everything would be ruined… lying to Alfred had been a mistake. And at the same time, how could he do otherwise? He recognized the truth in Romano's words, he had thought the same many times before, and yet… the situation wasn't exactly like the one Romano had described. If Canada had been stronger, not so forgettable… then nothing would have happened. It was also his fault, in the end. And Alfred had been so tender in taking care of him, so attentive, _how_ could he possibly…?

"Hey! No, don't do that, breathe!"

Romano's hand suddenly gripped his left shoulder, sending ripples of pain reverberating through Matthew's arm. He couldn't restrain a pained gasp, but at the same time, it violently brought him back to reality, where his ears were buzzing loudly and the colours swirled in front of his eyes. Matthew forced himself to take a shuddering, shallow breath.

" _Cazzo._ Sorry!" said Romano, a barely concealed note of panic in his voice. "How badly are you hurt?! Don't faint on me!"

"I'm not going to faint," Matthew managed to mutter.

Romano hummed in disbelief. He had released his hold, but his hand was still hovering over Matthew's shoulder.

The boy closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on regulating his breathing and not fainting.

"Listen," Romano said after a while, "You're not a coward. I know that you aren't, I've seen you being braver than most nations I know. I know that you mean well by not wanting to tell America what happened, but you'll only make the situation worse if you keep hiding things from him."

The irony of how right and at the same time wrong Romano was wasn't lost to Matthew, but he couldn't bear to answer. He could only pray that Alfred wasn't hurt.

Finally, the silence was broken by two pairs of hurried footsteps.

"Matthieu! _Oh mon petit, what happened to you?!_ "

The boy raised his head in time to see Francis crouch in front of him, his features distorted by anguish.

" _Oh, mon petit…_ " the man murmured again, tenderly sweeping Matthew's bangs away from his forehead.

The boy felt himself be invaded by a wave of warmth at Francis's gentle gesture and comforting hand, and at the same time, his stomach coiled with guilt at the realization of the distress he was causing. He couldn't take it anymore.

" _I fell down the stairs,_ " he explained in a half-sob, in French. " _But Alfred and Arthur don't believe me, and I don't know where Alfred is and he's going to get hurt and it's all my fault, please…_ "

Francis shushed him, cupping his chin.

" _Non, non, it's all right. It's going to be all right,_ " he murmured sweetly, " _But you shouldn't be out of bed now, pauvre petit. You need to lie down. Then you can tell me everything, but for now, just try to take a deep breath and relax._ "

Without wasting another instant, Francis took him his former colony his arms and rose to his feet. His hold tightened when Matthew couldn't restrain a whimper at the sudden onslaught of pain. The boy hid his head against Francis' shoulder, clenching his eyes shut at the waves of dizziness that were washing over him.

" _Francis, can we help?_ " he vaguely heard Italy ask, in a barely accented French.

" _Non, he's already panicking. I think the fewer people are around him, the better it is. Thank you, in any case._ "

Those words let Matthew knew that he had made the right choice, Francis would keep Alfred and Arthur calm until he was coherent enough to lie in a more convincing way. That knowledge still didn't make him feel any better for involving yet another innocent person, but Matthew knew that he had no choice. He needed to protect Alfred, at least for once.

" _I was in Al's room_ ," he muttered feebly.

" _And that's where you should still be,_ " Francis retorted, but there was no real anger or disappointment in his voice, only concern.

Matthew stayed silent all the way to the room, clinging to Francis as he desperately tried to keep in contact with reality. It was getting harder and harder, his ears were buzzing loudly, his head pounding. Everything felt fuzzy and far away, between reality and a dream.

The boy moaned again when Francis lowered him down on the bed, making his ribs grate against each other. Now it would be the time for another dose of painkillers… and at the same time, he needed to stay vigil at least until he had explained everything to Francis.

The young man, however, wasn't asking anything. He was petting Matthew's hair with his left hand, but his back was slightly turned. The boy suddenly realized that he was reading the medical report Arthur had left on the side table, his features progressively tightening.

" _Oh, Matthieu…_ " he sighed in the end, bringing his attention back to his former colony. _"What were you thinking, getting out of bed? And I bet you didn't even take your painkillers… it's a miracle you didn't fall down somewhere and broke something else. Honestly…"_

Matthew felt tears well in his eyes. What had he been thinking, indeed… now, even Francis was angry at him. He wasn't doing anything but worsening the situation at each move.

" _Je suis désolé…"_ he whimpered feebly.

Francis' features immediately softened.

 _"Non, non,"_ he murmured, running a hand through Matthew's hair. _"Je suis désolé, mon coeur… I'm not angry at you, I'm just very worried, you're so badly hurt…"_

In Matthew's dizzy mind, 'angry' and 'worried' seemed to overlap.

" _Je suis désolé, je suis vraiment désolé,_ " he could only keep whimpering in a loop.

He didn't know what else to say, how to explain the situation. Everything felt so confusing…

Francis sighed. He cupped Matthew's chin with a gentle hand, forcing the boy to look at him.

 _"Matthieu, there's nothing to be sorry for,"_ he stated, gently but firmly at the same time. _"And you need to calm down now. You're scared and in pain, but everything is all right, I promise. Now you just need to take your painkillers and rest."_

Francis suddenly exhaled sharply, his eyes widening.

 _"And when was last time you had something to eat?! Your stomach must be hurting a lot…"_

Matthew had to think a bit at the question.

 _"Yesterday at breakfast,"_ he answered in the end, _"At least I think…"_

Francis gasped.

 _"No wonder you're so weak, then! That's definitely too much time without any food, especially in your conditions… your body needs nutrients to recover!"_

It made sense, now that Matthew thought about it.

 _"But Francis…"_ he moaned.

 _'I can't eat,'_ he wanted to say because he was sure that it would hurt far too much, but the man shushed him.

 _"At least some honey. Something with nutrients but that won't hurt your stomach… it's either this or an IV, mon petit."_

That shut Matthew up. He still didn't feel like eating, but an IV sounded excessive…

 _"I'll be right back. Don't try to move. I'll get you something to eat, then you can have your painkillers and rest."_

Francis placed a gentle kiss on the boy's forehead before turning his back to him. He swiftly walked out of the room, leaving Matthew alone to contemplate the sudden turn of events. He wasn't sure that he liked it, but there was no turning back.

* * *

By the time Alfred got back to his room, his anger had almost completely vanished, replaced by a growing sense of concern mixed with guilt. He really didn't like the idea of Matthew being alone, he was starting to regret storming off the room that way. When his eyes fell on his little brother's frame, even the last vestiges of anger evaporated.

"Mattie!" Alfred cried out, running closer to his brother.

The boy seemed almost worse than he remembered. His face was wan and tight with pain, the forehead covered in light perspiration. The worst thing, however, was the way Matthew was wheezing, seemingly struggling with each intake of breath.

For a moment, Alfred thought that he was unconscious, then Matthew's eyes slid open.

"Al?" he muttered feebly.

"I'm here," Alfred was quick to answer as he sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress. "I'm back now."

"Are—are you all right?"

Matthew's pupils looked wide in his half-open eyes, his weak voice was laced with concern. Alfred felt an icy grip clench his chest. Arthur was right, whatever reason Matthew had to hide the truth he hadn't meant to hurt him.

Alfred took his brother's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, while his other hand ran to smooth back his hair.

"Yes, I'm fine. Nothing happened. I'm sorry for running off that way…"

His voice trailed off. He _was_ sorry, that was undeniable, but on the other hand, he still couldn't tolerate Matthew's lie. Even less if Arthur was right.

"But we still need to talk about what happened, Matthew," Arthur concluded for him, his voice gentle but firm, moving to stand next to Alfred. "I know that it's difficult for you, and I know that you mean well... but we need to know who did this to you. Is somebody threatening you? You can tell us two. We'll make sure that nothing happens."

Alfred hadn't thought that Matthew could get any paler than he was, but somehow, he did at Arthur's words, his skin turning to a sickly yellowish colour.

"But I…" he murmured desperately, "Nobody did…"

"Mattie, please!" Alfred stroked his brother's palm with his thumb. "Why do you keep lying? Didn't you hear Arthur? Even if there was a threat, nothing would happen—"

"And what do you think you're doing?"

Alfred and Arthur froze for a moment before simultaneously turning to the familiar, heavily accented voice.

Francis was standing next to the door, frowning.

"Francis? What…" Arthur started to ask, and at the same time, Alfred turned to Matthew, his stomach dropping.

"Jesus, Mattie!"

The younger boy wasn't looking at him, his eyes downcast. And Alfred knew why, just as he knew why he looked worse than before. Matthew didn't have his phone with him, which meant that Francis's presence could only be justified in one way…

"Sorry…" Matthew muttered feebly, "I…"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong, _petit,_ " retorted Francis, "Try to relax now, it's all right."

When the young man addressed Alfred and Arthur again, his voice was colder than ice.

"I need to have a word with you two. Outside."

Francis being so serious was unusual, unsettling. Enough to make Alfred follow his order without protesting, and so did Arthur.

"We'll be back in a moment, _mon coeur_ ," Francis said gently before Matthew could protest, then followed the other two nations out of the room and closed the door behind him.

"What in the bloody hell are you doing, Francis?" Arthur started immediately, a deep frown etched in his features. "I don't know what Matthew told you, but you can't believe that he actually fell down the stairs, and he only keeps hurting himself this way! He…"

"Do you really think I don't know? I'm not stupid, you know…"

"Then why didn't you help us, instead of shutting us down?" Alfred asked, folding his arms across his chest.

He didn't have time for that, he itched to go back to Matthew and finally learn the truth, so they could put everything behind them and focus on healing.

"I am the only one who's helping, actually," Francis retorted immediately, "What do you two think that you're doing?"

"Dude, are you for real? We need to find out who's that fucking bastard who hurt Mattie! Did you even look at him? He's so badly hurt…"

Francis tapped his fingers on his elbow.

"That's exactly my point."

"Which doesn't make any sense, you bloody frog," hissed Arthur, "Are you saying that we should let this slide? Because there is absolutely no way I will. Matthew is not a child anymore, but if he doesn't defend himself, somebody has to step up. And in case you haven't noticed, we need to know the identity of the culprit to do that."

Francis's lips tightened in a thin line.

"And, pray tell, why do you need to know it _now_? Would it change anything to know it in a couple of days? Who does benefit if you know right now, you or Matthieu?"

Annoyed by the waste of time, Alfred opened his mouth to retort – but found no words to do it. Because Francis was _right_ , he realized suddenly, his stomach clenching with guilt. He wouldn't have his revenge immediately, of course, but…

A small smile tugged at the corners of Francis's mouth at the sudden silence, but his eyes were serious.

"Of course we can't let this slide – but we must give Matthieu some time to recover. I have no idea of what happened, but whatever it was, it hit him really hard. The poor thing is in a lot of pain and scared out of his mind, and your behaviour isn't helping. What were you _thinking_ , running off like that? This is why Matthieu came after me, in spite of the fact he could barely stand. Your behaviour had worried him so much that he felt the need to have somebody else to calm you down. He was almost sobbing when I found him, he was so terrified that something had happened to you…"

Alfred had to lower his head, unable to bear Francis's furious glare. He swallowed around a heavy lump in his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur tense next to him.

"I'm not saying that Matthieu is doing the right thing, or that we should never try to find out what happened. What I'm saying is that now is not the right moment. He has a concussion, for God's sake, he's in so much pain that he can't think clearly! And you're only agitating him further. Oh, not to mention the fact that he hasn't had anything to eat in nearly two days. But none of you bothered to think about it, did you?"

Alfred's eyes widened, and he exchanged a worried glance with Arthur, the young man's expression mirroring his own sudden guilt. They hadn't even thought about it, caught up in more pressing matters.

Francis sighed, shaking his head.

"Just as I thought. Now listen: I'm going back inside, and I'm going to try and make Matthieu as comfortable as I can. You're welcome back, of course, your presence would calm him down, but if you do a single thing to agitate him further I will personally kick you out of the room. I hope this is clear."

Without any other word, France turned and slid back into the room, closing the door behind him.

 _'But that's_ my _bedroom!'_ a corner of Alfred's mind wanted to scream, but the other part of his brain was stuck on playing back Francis's words. The boy could feel guilt crawling up his stomach. Francis was right. Once again, he had been putting himself first, even if Matthew was the one hurt.

A gentle touch on his arm brought him back to reality.

"Come on, lad." Arthur's face was stark-white, his widened eyes betrayed his shock, but his voice was gentle. "I guess Francis was right, we needed a wake-up call… but dwelling on it won't solve anything. Let's go back to Matthew."

Arthur's use of the plural slightly alleviated the weight in Alfred's stomach, but everything crashed back at the plain relief on Matthew's face when he saw them come back into the room. He still looked horrible, but so much better than when he had been pleading Alfred to let him be… or maybe it was also the few spoonsful of honey Francis had managed to make him swallow, but Alfred's knew that it wasn't so.

"Sorry, Mattie," was all he could mutter as he approached the bed, his throat tight.

Alfred slid on the bed and hugged his little brother, positioning himself to support him in a more elevated but still comfortable position. The slight body relaxed against him.

"It's okay," Matthew muttered.

Guilt scratched at Alfred's insides at the realization of how much Francis was right.

Arthur sighed as well, reaching out to pet Matthew's hair. He didn't say anything, but that gesture was all he needed.

When Francis declared that it was time for Matthew to take his painkillers, both Alfred and Arthur tensed, exchanging a quick glance – Matthew had lied again – but, in mutual understanding, they said nothing. Alfred was feeling even worse, knowing that his actions had led his little brother to such drastic measures. And in spite of that, he didn't want to dwell on the feeling: Matthew was starting to relax, which meant that things were starting to get better.

With only a few more words, they settled for the night, Alfred on the bed with Matthew, Arthur and Francis on comfortable armchairs at the sides. In the newfound tranquillity, Alfred found himself able to fall into a light slumber, even if he kept waking up from time to time to check that Matthew's strained breathing hadn't gotten any worse.

The boy was almost starting to relax, the mixture of guilt and anger simmering down, but as morning approached and the painkillers started wearing off, the lines of pain etched in Matthew's face got more pronounced, drops of perspiration appearing on his forehead.

"He's a bit feverish," Francis reported around eight in the morning, cupping Matthew's face.

Alfred's stomach sank. A fever in reaction to such injuries wouldn't be strange, but it was for a personification. The fact that Matthew was reacting so badly was only further proof that another nation had intentionally been the cause. Suddenly, the large room felt suffocating.

"Alfred." Arthur's voice was soft, his eyes gentle. "Can you go downstairs and grab something to eat? We could all use a good breakfast."

Alfred was flooded by a sudden wave of gratitude. He didn't want to leave Matthew, but the sight of the battered body invaded him with contrasting emotions of concern and anger at the continued deception, and he didn't want to lose his temper.

"Sure thing. I'll be back in a moment!"

The young nation almost ran out of the room, hoping that some fresh air would help him calm down the turmoil that was swirling around his mind.

In spite of his words, Alfred took his time to walk around the corridor at a leisured pace. The hurt for Matthew's mistrust was slowly resurfacing, so he kept replaying in his head Francis's words. Matthew probably had a reason (not the one Arthur was thinking, Alfred hoped, his insides twisting at the thought) and he couldn't be selfish about it. He needed to wait.

Alfred was feeling almost ready to get back to Matthew when an angry voice called out his name.

"America!"

He turned to see Cuba striding towards him, his features contorted in rage and fists raised.

Alfred groaned internally. _'Ugh, I don't have time to deal with this idiot…'_

"You fucking bastard, what do you have to say about yourself?!"

America didn't even know what had happened this time, maybe some misunderstood words in a newspaper, Cuba's temper was so volatile that setting him off was ridiculously easy. He easily blocked the oncoming punch, swatting Cuba to a side like a pesky fly. America had to admit that the older nation's strength was remarkable, but it was nothing compared to his.

"I don't know what happened and I don't give a fuck, I have more important stuff to worry about. Either you fuck off right now, or you'll be in a body cast in ten minutes."

Alfred hadn't expected his words to have any effect, he was greatly surprised when Cuba froze, his expression shifting from anger to confusion.

"You're fighting back this time? Oh… So, Canada…"

For a moment, everything stilled. Alfred felt like time had frozen as Cuba's words registered in his brain, the nation's widening eyes suddenly revealing the sinister meaning hidden behind them.

A moment later, Alfred's blood exploded with boiling rage.

"YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" Alfred yelled as he launched himself at Cuba, any rational thought completely washed away by his thirst for revenge.

 **(word count: 9,996)**

* * *

 **Notes :**

 **[1]** "Mayonnaise, do you get it? Mayonnaise!"  
 **[2]** "Lovi, I know, but there was no need to…"  
 **[3]** "No, you do _not_ know! You don't get it, I saw that white sauce and it looked like cheese, what was I supposed to think?! Only barbarians would completely cover a plate of pasta in mayonnaise! Moreov— what the fuck?!"  
 **[4]** "Lovi, what – oh!"

Natasha and Vanya are Russian diminutives for Natalya and Ivan, respectively. I thought that Ukraine would call them like that, since the three of them have lived in Russia for a long time.

English isn't my first language, I apologize for the mistakes and oddly-phrased sentences.

I'll try to be quick with the next chapter, which will probably be the last one, unless it gets too long and I decide to split it in two.

Please leave a comment!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes :** This one took quite long as well, I'm sorry (note to everybody: don't start writing again the year you're getting your master degree. Seriously, don't. Wait a few months until you've gotten it, at least.)

Anyway, thanks to everybody who favourited and/or followed this, and a very, very special thanks to those who commented, I have no words to express how much I appreciate your feedback. <3

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

There was no space for any thought in Alfred's mind, no space for rationality. With the blood roaring in his ears, the only thing he could concentrate on was Cuba's horrified features. He wasn't even truly _seeing_ them – all he could see was Matthew's pasty face, the dark bruise decorating his cheekbone, the way his eyelids fluttered over his unfocused eyes, struggling to stay open. And all that damage had been caused by the man that stood in front of him, paralyzed.

Alfred wanted to see him bleed. He wanted to feel his flesh bruise under his fists, he wanted to see Cuba collapse on his knees, begging for mercy, moaning in pain until the sound would make Alfred forget Matthew's agonized whimpers. He heard a sharp cry somewhere but didn't pay any heed to it, already projected in the anticipation of his fist hitting Cuba's face.

It never happened.

Suddenly, Alfred felt something crash against his side, knocking the wind out of him. The boy found himself on the floor, pinned down by a heavier body, staring at Germany's stern face.

"What do you think you're doing, America?!" the young man growled.

Alfred didn't answer, his eyes roaming behind Germany's frame until they fell on Cuba's figure. The coward was motionless, frozen in the same place he had been before, pale and wide-eyed. Alfred hated that. He utterly despised that lost expression, Cuba had no right to feel confused, not when his little brother was lying on a bed because of him, in so much pain that he could barely breathe.

"Let me go!" he snarled, trying to squirm, but Germany's hold on his arms was too strong, and the rest of his heavy body was expertly positioned to hold him in place.

Alfred mentally cursed the lack of attention that had resulted in that predicament.

Germany's frown deepened.

"If you think I'm going to let you hurt anybody you're wrong, America. This kind of conduct is inexcusable. I want an explanation, right. Now."

America gritted his teeth.

"I'm going to give you all the explanations you want," he hissed, "After you've let me go and murder that fucking son of a bitch!"

His words were accompanied by some trashing, but Germany tightened his hold, his muscles tensing with the effort.

Cuba had yet to move, he was staring at the void with unfocused his eyes, like a deer caught in the head-lights.

"You're not murdering anybody," retorted Germany.

Drops of perspiration started blossoming on his face as he struggled to restrain Alfred's strength.

At that point, the targets of Alfred's rage became two. He had nothing against Germany, but the other nation was keeping him from his objective, and Alfred had no more restraint. There was only one thought that occupied his mind, he could hear Matthew's pained whimpers in tune with his thundering heart, the boy's bruised skin was imprinted in front of his eyes. All he could think about was revenge.

Narrowing his eyes, Alfred tried to calculate his odds. His arms and legs were effectively pinned, and Germany's strength perfectly matched his, but Alfred's head was free. Would head-butting Germany make him loosen his hold? He had nothing to lose….

Suddenly, the tense silence was shattered by a panicked gasp.

"Luddy! W—what's going on?!"

Alfred turned his head to see Italy standing at the end of the corridor, his eyes wide, fidgeting with his hands.

"W—why are you holding down America? W—what…"

"He tried to attack Cuba. I don't know why. Feliciano, I need you to get somebody strong enough to help me."

Knowing that it was his only chance, Alfred opened his mouth to explain himself, but Italy preceded him.

"Cuba?!" he asked, his eyebrows raising in surprise, "What… Luddy, don't hurt America! He's probably thinking that Cuba hurt Canada!"

"What?!"

Germany turned his head sharply towards the two standing nations, while Alfred was so surprised that he had even stopped struggling. _How on earth_ di Italy know?

"Is it true?" Germany barked.

Those words finally seemed to wrench Cuba out of his trance. The man shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

"I… I don't remember hurting Canada." Cuba's voice was shaky. "But I don't remember anything about Friday night, actually… I might have hurt him. I… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

An angry wail seeped through America's lips as he resumed his trashing, desperately trying to get Germany off him, any thread of rationality gone from his mind.

"Sorry?! Is this all you have to say, bastard?! 'Sorry' isn't going to heal him! You piece of shit let me—"

"AMERICA!"

At Germany's shout, Alfred brought his attention back to the nation restraining him.

"Let me go," he growled, "You heard what he said, you know why I need to do this. Just let go of me!"

Germany only heightened his efforts to restrain him, his features tightening.

"I heard it. And he will have to answer for it, but violence is never the right answer, America! You need to calm down!"

America tossed his head from side to side, gritting his teeth.

"I WILL CALM DOWN AFTER I'VE TORN THAT SON OF A BITCH INTO SHREDS! I…"

"What the fuck is going on here!"

The new voice had Alfred stop for a moment, his eyes running to the source of the noise.

Romano was standing next to Italy, his expression a mixture of surprise and annoyance. His eyes roamed over the scene, widening when they took in America and Germany's poses, and a still shell-shocked Cuba.

"Lovi, he…" Italy started, but before he could go on Romano hissed something in Italian – something not nice, judging from Italy's subsequent gasp.

"Well, I guess that the culprit has been found," he declared then, flatly. "Are you the one who decided that it would be a good idea to beat Canada to a bloody pulp?"

Cuba raised his hands in front of him.

"Hey, I never thought it was 'a good idea'! I was drunk, I didn't mean to…"

Alfred didn't know how Romano was aware of what had transpired. It almost looked like everybody knew, at that point, but he realized that he didn't care. All he could care about was the fact that Cuba was still standing, unharmed, while Matthew could hardly muster the necessary strength to sit up on his own.

"Let me go," he snarled again at Germany, "Just get off me!"

"And what do you think you're doing, you fucking dumbass?!"

Alfred needed a moment to realize that Romano's words were directed at him. He scowled at the Italian.

"I," he enunciated slowly, trying to gather the strength to free himself from Germany's hold, "Am. Going. To. MURDER. HIM!"

Italy and Cuba started, but Romano merely scoffed, apparently unperturbed by the display of rage.

"Oh, yes. I see. Because this would solve everything," he stated, his tone dripping sarcasm.

Alfred gritted his teeth, the frustration was building up behind his temples.

"You have seen Mattie, haven't you?" he hissed. It was the only reason he could think for Romano to be aware of the situation. "You've seen what this son of a bitch did to him! Do you really think I can let this slide?! Would you, if it were Feliciano lying on a bed?!"

Romano huffed.

"That's not the point, dumbass. I've seen your little brother, yes. I would gladly lend you a hand teaching this fucker a good lesson. But believe me when I say that this is the last thing your brother wants."

Alfred felt like he was about to burst, he couldn't contain his thundering heart any longer.

"BUT HE HURT HIM! I DON'T CARE WHAT MATTHEW—"

And suddenly, Francis's disapproving glare danced in front of his eyes, mirrored in Romano's hard eyes. _'Are you really thinking about what's the best for Matthieu?'_

Alfred felt himself deflating. Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, he went limp in Germany's hold, closing his eyes.

 _'I'm an idiot.'_

Once again, he had forgotten about his little brother's needs, putting his own ego and thirst for revenge first. Matthew didn't like violence, nor did he like the concept of a futile revenge. He would have been so upset if Alfred had actually carried out what he wanted… Alfred still wanted to do it. There was nothing that he wanted more than feeling his hands curl around Cuba's neck. But once again, the only result would be hurting Matthew. And Alfred couldn't do it – not another time.

He took some deep breaths, forcing his thundering heart to slow down.

"You're right," he admitted as he finally opened his eyes again. "Matthew wouldn't want this."

Romano gave him a solemn nod in response, while next to him, Italy exhaled, his tight features finally relaxing. Germany's muscles were still tensed, but he was looking at Alfred with questioning eyes.

"You can let me go," Alfred said, forcing himself to keep his voice neutral. "I won't do anything."

Germany seemed to believe him. After a harsh nod, he got up and helped the younger nation to his feet.

"I want to know exactly what happened," he declared then, folding his arms across his chest, his eyebrows knitted over his stern eyes.

They all turned to Cuba. The man shrugged, running a hand through his hair – Alfred had to use every inch of his will not to jump at him, his temper inflamed by such a careless gesture.

 _'Mattie. Think about Mattie.'_

"I—I don't really know what happened," Cuba began in a shaky voice, "I've already told you, I was drunk, I don't remember anything about Friday night. I remember a bit of the party, and next thing I know, I was waking up in the corridor. I don't have the slightest idea of what has happened in between, so I cannot claim I wasn't the culprit… I _might_ have actually hurt Canada. I'm really sorry… is he badly hurt?"

 _'Sorry'_ wasn't even close to enough for what Cuba had done. Alfred's blood boiled seeing how Cuba looked sincerely regretful, but not nearly as crushed as he should be. He should be _begging_ for mercy, instead, he thought that a simple apology was enough. America wanted to wring his neck.

 _'Mattie. You mustn't hurt Mattie.'_

Alfred clenched tightly his fists, but managed not to raise them.

"Oh, let's see…" he hissed, his voice dripping venom, his eyes digging holes in Cuba's waxen face. "Why, yes, he is. Broken ribs. Broken ankle. A concussion. Dislocated shoulder. His stomach is so badly bruised that he will probably need an IV because he's _in too much pain to eat_. AND IF YOU THINK THAT A 'SORRY' IS GOING TO MAKE EVERYTHING BETTER WELL I'VE GOT BAD NEWS FOR YOU, YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHI—"

"AMERICA!"

Germany had raised one arm, ready to restrain him. Italy was staring at him, his eyes wide with fear, Romano was frowning. Alfred forced himself to take a deep breath.

"Sorry. I'm good," he murmured to Germany, before turning his attention back to Cuba.

The nation, Alfred noticed with a mixture of surprise and outrage, looked shocked, his eyes wide on his too pale face, his hands trembling. Cuba opened his mouth, but no sound went past his lips. He had to swallow visibly before being able to talk.

"Oh God, I'm… I'm so sorry, I have no words to express how sorry I am, something like this never happened before, it was never this bad, I'm so, terribly sorry, I…"

" _Before_?" Feliciano echoed in a breathless gasp, "Does it mean that this isn't the first time it happened?!"

Alfred had to use every inch of his self-control not to jump at Cuba right there and then. He clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw started hurting. Of course it wasn't the first time, of course it had been him also that summer, even if Cuba being the culprit had never even crossed America's mind. And maybe, there had been other times before, times he had missed? The young nation's stomach was churning at the thought of Matthew having to take care of himself alone, and at the same time, he could feel the blood pound in his ears in front of Cuba's apparent nonchalance.

"Why didn't I hear about this before?" Germany barked, "This is serious! We cannot just let an attack on another nation slide!"

Alfred resorted to a solemn nod, too afraid of what he could have said otherwise. Cuba seemed to falter.

"Uh, but it wasn't that bad," he muttered, "I'm not proud of it, far from it. I've been trying to work on my temper, but it's never easy… Canada understands this. He's never been truly angry at me… I guess that he didn't want to get me in trouble."

Alfred couldn't restrain himself any longer, his rage raising with each of Cuba's words. This was exactly what he had feared.

"How do you _dare_?!" he spat out, seething. "How do you dare taking advantage of Mattie this way?! He's short of an angel, and with the patience of one, too… and this is how you repay him?! By _beating him to a pulp_ , because you know that _he's going to forgive you anyway_?! YOU GODDAMN FUCKER I—"

Alfred was ready to lunge himself at Cuba, the sound of the blood roaring in his ears blocking out any rational thought. Matthew, Romano, Francis, none of them mattered anymore, the only thing he could think about was Matthew's bruised skin, his pained whimpers, the brute in front of him that still refused to take any responsibility...

"America, you need to calm down!"

Germany's voice, along with the hand firmly clasped on his shoulder, jerked Alfred back to reality. The red wave of rage simmered down.

 _"Mattie. Think about Mattie."_

Alfred straightened up, forcing his clenched fists to relax. Romano and Italy were staring at him with wide eyes, unlike Cuba, who seemed to have slightly recovered from the previous shock and was now scowling.

"So now it's all my fault, uh? I already said that I _am_ sorry! And I'm trying really hard so that it doesn't happen again! But none of this would have happened if you weren't such an obnoxious, self-conceited bastard! If you didn't keep pocking your nose where it doesn't belong and bullying and ruining other nations in the name of your skewed idea of 'freedom', Canada would be fine!"

America saw red at those words, his blood boiled with outrage. An inhuman growl bubbled up his throat, all he could think about was the way Cuba's chubby face would feel under his fists – but Germany's strong hold kept him still, reminding him of what he had promised.

"What do you mean by this?" Lovino scoffed in his place, the frown etched on his face so deep that it almost managed to look frightening. "This is the biggest fucking bullshit I've ever heard. Never mind that there is something called _talking problems out_ , which concept is clearly foreign to you, no matter how fucking annoying America may be, this will _never, ever_ give you the right to attack his little brother! Canada has nothing to do with America's politics, how could you even think..."

"Hey now, this isn't what happened!" Cuba interrupted him, raising his hands. "Do you think so lowly of me? I would never purposefully hurt Canada, we're friends, no matter who his family is! It's just... He and America look so much alike... Okay, I have to admit that you see the differences once you know them well, but do you have any idea of just how hard it can be to tell them apart? Especially when I'm that angry..."

America felt like he had just been punched. The air was knocked out of his lungs, he tried to open his mouth to speak, but he could find no words.

"And how does this make anything better?" he vaguely heard Germany ask in a stern voice, but he couldn't concentrate on his words.

All he could think about was Matthew's injuries, his fear, his denial to talk... Everything was suddenly falling into place with sickening clarity. Matthew, sweet little Matthew... Once again, he was hurt because of him. Alfred felt sick.

A sudden swear from Romano abruptly brought him back to reality. The young man was looking at Cuba with widened eyes, and an equally shocked-looking Italy had grabbed his left arm.

"So this is why... _Cazzo._ Makes sense now..."

Alfred didn't know what he was talking about, because nothing made sense. And at the same time, it did, taking into account Matthew's personality.

"You..." he wheezed out, bringing his attention back to Cuba.

The man was glowering at him.

"Do you see it, now? It's all your fault," he remarked, "I would never hurt Canada if it weren't for you."

Alfred didn't agree with him. No matter what he did, _he_ should be the one bearing the consequences, not his little brother... And Cuba was still responsible for his actions.

"Your reasons don't matter," Germany retorted sharply, "Attacking another nation is still inexcusable, no matter how you look at it. The fact that Canada is innocent makes it worse, but it would have been wrong even if you had hit your intended target."

But at the same time, there was a part of truth in Cuba's words. _"Your actions have consequences, Alfred!"_ Arthur would constantly tell him, _"And no, it doesn't matter if you think you can deal with them! You don't live in a bubble, you bloody git! Other people are going to be affected too, whether you meant it or not!"_ Alfred had had countless of times before to realize how right Arthur was. And at the same time, in his arrogance, he still messed up. The boy could feel the bile rise to the back of his throat, his hands were trembling.

' _Mattie... Oh, Jesus, Mattie, I'm so sorry..."_

"But Matthew agrees with me!" Cuba defended himself before turning again to America. "He never blamed me, he told me he understood... And you didn't even listen to him when he tried to tell you!"

Alfred's heart stopped at those words.

"W—what? But he never talked to me about this!"

At the same time, his mind was frantically running through all the conversations with his little brother, trying to remember if he had ever dismissed him. The last two times, Matthew had vehemently tried to hide everything _(so that Alfred wouldn't feel bad? It would be just like him...)_ But what if things had been different before? The realization of how _possible_ it was sank in his stomach with the weight of a rock. It wouldn't be the first time he didn't listen to Matthew...

Alfred's head was spinning, Cuba's eyes were judging him triumphantly. Alfred still wanted to hit him for what he had done to Matthew, yet, at the same time, he couldn't be in that place for any longer, he could barely breathe, the walls of his throat were closing off.

"Hey now, this isn't what happened!" Romano had started saying. He shrugged off Italy's hold to step closer to Alfred. "Canada..."

But Alfred couldn't concentrate on his words. All he could see was Matthew's pained face, his desperate denial. _Why…_

He turned to Germany.

"I can trust you to take this from here, right?"

He couldn't bear to look at Cuba anymore. Not when Matthew had lied to him like that, not when he still needed explanations...

"Of course," Germany answered with a sharp nod, "Go to your brother."

Alfred could read the pity in his eyes. He flew from them, ignoring Romano's voice calling him back.

All he could think about was Matthew, Matthew, Matthew... Matthew that he had unknowingly hurt once again. Matthew who had lied to him, maybe because he was tired of not being heard, or maybe because he was so selfless that he didn't want Alfred to blame himself. He didn't know what would be worse. Alfred had hardly ever felt that bad, his stomach was coiled in protest, his ears were ringing.

He almost ran the length of the corridor, so desperate he was to reach his little brother. Absolution or damnation, it didn't matter what he would get. He needed _answers._

* * *

The first thing Matthew was aware of, as he started resurfacing from the murky depths of unconsciousness, was that there was something missing.

The second was pain, such an all-consuming pain that it tore a moan from his lips. His head was throbbing viciously, and breathing was agony – every single movement of his ribs was accompanied by stabs of pain that diffused to his entire abdomen. His stomach was hurting too, a dull, omnipresent pulsing often intensified by spasms that brought the acrid bile to the back of his throat.

The pain was probably what had woken him in in the first place, Matthew could vaguely recall it as a sensation at the back of his mind during his restless sleep, and now it felt infinitely worse. There was also something else, however, something that was very important and soothing and should have been there...

A cool hand touched Matthew's forehead, brushing back his sweaty bangs.

 _"Matthieu, mon tresor?"_ called Francis's familiar voice, "Are you awake, _mon petit_?"

Matthew groaned in answer as the previous days started coming back to him. He struggled to open his eyes, he had to blink several times before he managed to get his surrounding into focus. Somehow, he was feeling even worse than he had before falling asleep – and that would surely raise questions, unless he managed to hide it properly.

"Matthew?" Arthur's smooth voice joined Francis's one, and so did his hand, a gentle touch on Matthew's palm. "How are you feeling, love?"

Finally, the blurred blotches of colour above Matthew rearranged into his caretakers' faces. Both looked paler and messier than usual, he noticed with a pang of guilt, and faint bags could be clearly seen under their eyes.

"Not so bad," the boy answered. His voice came out feeble and scratchy, his mouth felt dry.

At the same time, Matthew finally realized what was the important thing that was missing: his brother's warm body supporting him. He could recall falling asleep like that, leaning against Alfred, feeling so safe in spite of everything, with his brother's arms loosely wrapped around him. They had reminded him to be strong, helped him bear the pain. Now, all he could feel were pillows under his back – softer, but not nearly as soothing as his older brother.

"Where's Al?" the boy asked groggily before he could even realize what he was saying, a sudden spike of panic invading his brain – what if Alfred was angry again and he had left?

Neither Arthur nor Francis changed expression, however, which meant that there was nothing wrong.

"He went to get us some breakfast, he'll be back soon," Arthur explained.

"And you should get something to eat too, before taking your painkillers," added Francis, brushing the boy's cheek.

The painkillers sounded fine – heavenly, even. Eating didn't. The mere thought made Matthew suddenly aware of how much his stomach was still twisting in agony, churning with nausea.

"I'd rather not eat," he mumbled, "Can I just have some water?"

 _'And painkillers, please. Or a blow to the head, either is fine.'_ But he couldn't say that, not after the way Arthur's and Francis's features darkened at his words.

In spite of his visible uneasiness, Arthur took a glass of water and helped Matthew drink it without saying a single word.

"You need to eat something, _mon petit_ ," Francis said as soon as Matthew was finished, and his mind less hazy thanks to the water. "You hardly ate anything yesterday... And you need to gain back your strength to heal."

Francis was right, of course. The two spoonsful of honey he had had the previous evening had only temporary given Matthew some energy back, as of now, his head was spinning even if he was simply lying down. There was absolutely no way he was going to eat without throwing up, however, his stomach was hurting too much, and it pained him how much concern that was causing to Arthur and Francis.

"It wouldn't do any good to force him to eat," Arthur declared surprisingly, "If he were to throw up, it would be even worse."

"But he _needs_ to eat," Francis retorted, his fingers absentmindedly threading through Matthew's hair.

"He needs nutrients, not to throw up," Arthur corrected him, frowning. "I think he needs an IV."

Matthew's stomach clenched at that – at another evidence of how much troubles and concern he was causing.

 _Good job, Matthew Williams. A+ in 'adding other useless concerns to people who already have far too much on their plate'..._

And that was even without trying to find an excuse for how he has ended up in that situation in the first place, at least that inquiry had been put on hold... But Matthew was starting to dread when the time would come. He was less and less certain that he could produce a believable excuse.

"We'll do something about it as soon as Alfred comes back," decided Arthur, "It shouldn't take much at this point... And don't even try to protest, poppet, you need that IV."

Matthew hadn't been about to. For how much he didn't want to be a burden, he had come to realize that protesting only made things worse in the long run, enhancing everybody's worries. The fact that he actually kind of _enjoyed_ how much everybody actually cared for him only produced another sharp stab of guilt that made his stomach churn, but it wasn't the moment to worry about that.

"Yes, this is probably for the best." Francis sighed, shaking his head. "Do you already have something here in the hotel?"

"I think so," Arthur mumbled without turning, preoccupied with something on the side table. Matthew realized that he was probably preparing his medications. "I'll go with Alfred as soon as he's back... I wonder what's keeping him."

As if on cue, the door suddenly swung open with such violence that it slammed against the wall, startling the three occupants of the room.

Matthew immediately turned to his brother, his lips curled into a slight smile – partly to reassure Alfred that he was fine, partly because he was earnestly happy for his presence.

The blood ran cold in his veins when his eyes fell on the other nation.

There was nothing of the cheerfulness Matthew had been expecting on Alfred's face, not even a slight hint. The boy's features were ghostly pale, his eyes wide, bright with such an intense mixture of pain and anguish that they stole Matthew's breath away. Alfred said nothing, he was simply standing in the doorway, panting slightly, one hand against the door's frame as if to support himself.

"Alfred!" Francis gasped as Arthur reached the younger nation with quick strides.

"Alfred, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

Matthew couldn't talk. He could barely breathe, his brother's eyes were fixed on him, freezing him with the amount of emotions they were expressing.

"Mattie," Alfred said in the end, his voice so full of despair that Matthew wanted to cry, "Matthew, why didn't you tell me?"

Matthew's heart missed a beat. He opened and closed his mouth, almost gasping for air.

 _He knows._

Matthew desperately wanted to deny it, but he could read the truth in Alfred's anguished features. He had failed, and Alfred was paying the price for his being so pathetic.

"What was to tell?" Arthur asked immediately, frowning.

"Cuba," Alfred ground out, uttering the name like a curse. Matthew felt the bile rise to the back of his throat. "It was Cuba."

The air went still for a moment. Even Francis's fingers on Matthew's hair stopped moving. In a corner of his mind, the boy was aware that it was his turn to talk – to explain, to try to mediate – but he was frozen on the spot. He could barely breathe, he couldn't find a single word to say. All he could think about was how he had completely, utterly failed.

"Come again?" Arthur asked in the end, wide-eyed, shattering the silence.

Alfred took a shaky breath – and Matthew could see the way his hands were trembling, his eyes were far too bright with unshed tears, and it was all so, so wrong...

"It was Cuba. And the other time, too. You know, when I found Matthew all bruised this summer. And plenty of times before, apparently." Alfred's voice was trembling.

"What?!" Francis gasped before turning back to Matthew, his eyes widened in surprise. "But this is... Matthieu, I thought you and Cuba were friends!"

Everybody was looking at him now, various grades of worry etched in their features. Matthew swallowed painfully.

"He… That's true," he said softly, using every inch of his will not to lower his head. "Cuba is my friend. It's just… he has really a bad temper. So, uh… he kind of beat me up a couple of times. B—but nothing too bad, I mean, and he always apologized so it's not a big deal, really…"

His voice trailed off before his brothers' shocked eyes.

"Not a big deal?" Arthur echoed him, his eyebrows raised. He slowly shook his head. "Matthew, do you even _hear_ yourself talking? We had to take you to the hospital. You're going to be kept on bedrest for a couple of weeks, probably! And this is…"

"Oh, Matthieu!" Francis's anguished wail interrupted Arthur.

The man looked almost like he was going to cry, the raw suffering sculpted in his features made Matthew's stomach coil painfully. But he couldn't keep thinking about himself, or everything would keep getting worse and worse.

"Ah… this is the first time it was so bad, really," Matthew clarified quickly, taking advantage of the moment of silence. "It's just because he was drunk… and I—I don't blame him, really, he didn't mean to… he probably didn't mean to get drunk, either, like most people in the room, nobody knew that there was vodka in the punch… so, uhm, yeah, this is why I didn't tell you. I'm sorry, I really am, but I just didn't want you to get angry at Cuba, you know, he's actually a really nice guy once you get to know him, so…"

His voice trailed off again. It was a pathetic excuse, and he knew it, but he couldn't come up with anything better with the way his head was spinning. He could only pray that they would buy it…

Francis emitted a keening wail and took Matthew's hand, squeezing it, while Arthur took a sharp breath, his forehead knitting.

"Matthew, excuse my French, but this is complete, utter bullshit. Being drunk doesn't excuse him from his actions, just like—"

"And why are you still lying?" Alfred interrupted Arthur, his voice an octave higher than usual. Matthew's chest clenched. "Jesus, why? Don't… why are you trying to pretend that it was only a casual thing?! Why aren't you saying… Why didn't you ever tell me that that fucker was beating you up because he kept mistaking you for me?!"

Matthew's heart stopped beating for a moment, a lump closed off his throat. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't even think. His ears were ringing loudly, his head spinning… Matthew wanted to close his eyes, but they were glued to Alfred's bright, desperate ones.

 _He knows._

All his struggles, his proud decision… everything had been completely _in vain_. Alfred was hurting – he could see it in his eyes, in his slumped posture. He was taking it exactly like Matthew had imagined – it was exactly why he hadn't wanted him to know, but it was a million times worse, now that it was real.

"What?!" " _Quoi?"_ echoed Arthur and Francis, a mixture of horror and confusion written on their faces.

Matthew and Alfred ignored them – this was something between the two of them only. Matthew didn't have any idea of what to say, now that everything had been exposed. He didn't know what lies to tell, and he was still too confused, pained and dizzy to come up with anything. Truth seemed his only option.

"I won't apologize for this, Al," he said softly, "I'm sorry that this hurt you, and on this I'm sincere, but I'm not sorry for what I did. Don't you see? You knowing doesn't change anything about what happened. It only hurts you – and maybe even Cuba, too. Yes, I didn't tell you for fear of what you would do to Cuba, but it's not the only reason. I also didn't tell you because I didn't want you to blame yourself. So, please… please don't."

A deep silence fell after Matthew's words. The boy felt empty, almost as if he were floating. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation – he still felt horrible for the fact that Alfred knew, but, at the same time, finally telling the truth seemed to have lifted a considerable weight from his chest. He could even breathe more easily, in spite of the physical pain the action still brought to him.

"Fuck!" Alfred swore loudly, his fist hitting the door with a bang.

Matthew started, then hissed when the movement jarred his ribs. Francis tightened the hold on his hand at that.

"Matthieu…"

"Goddamnit, Mattie, why do you have to be always such a martyr?! I… You don't have to always shoulder everything, and certainly not if it's my fault! Jesus, it's still Cuba's fault, but I still am the one who irritated him! I… I would have tried to change something if you had told me! I…"

Alfred stopped his rant, seemingly out of breath. His expression had shifted, anger was starting to show in features.

Next to him, Arthur took a deep breath.

"Okay, boys, we really need to have a talk now…"

Alfred ignored him.

"This is all so, so wrong! Why didn't you tell me the first time?! It could have been solved easily then! And for God's sake, why are you letting Cuba beat you up?! I know you're strong enough to fend him off, then why didn't you do it?!"

Alfred's angry words reached Matthew like a stab in his chest. _'You're pathetic,'_ his brother was saying, under the surface of his rage and concern. Matthew was already aware of that, but hearing it so clearly still hurt.

"I'm sorry!" he whimpered, "I just… I didn't want to get him in trouble, okay? Or you, for what matters."

Alfred slammed his hand against the door.

"But you're getting hurt! Do you really think that it matters so little to me? People _should_ get in trouble if you get hurt! Me included. Speak up for once! Why are you always like that?! We worry for you, you know?! Why don't you ever say what's on your mind?! You can't go on like that!"

"ALFRED!"

Arthur physically put himself between his two younger brothers, a hand on Alfred's arm.

"This. Is. Enough," he stated sternly, "We need to talk about this, but you need to calm down first. Let's go outside."

He all but unceremoniously pushed Alfred out of the room, following him. Matthew managed to catch a glimpse of his brother's hurt expression, of his too expressive eyes, before the door was slammed shut behind Arthur's shoulders.

Matthew just kept staring at the point where they had vanished, his chest heavy with regret. Everything was so, so wrong… And it was all, completely his fault. Alfred was angry at him, now. He was aware of how utterly, completely pathetic Matthew was, and at the same time, he was blaming himself for what had happened, there was no hiding it. Alfred's eyes were so expressive that it was almost a curse, he couldn't hide any emotion he was feeling. And the depth of his pain was like a knife twisting inside Matthew's stomach.

Matthew wanted to cry, to call back Alfred, to apologize and somehow made him understand everything, but he was far too drained and weak to do it. _Pathetic._ All he could do was stare at the door, that was getting blurred. Maybe he was about to faint. Well, that would have been a welcome change.

Only when Francis's gentle fingers brushed over his cheek, Matthew realized that he was crying.

" _Mattieu,"_ the man said softly, _"How long has this been going on, mon coeur? Oh, I can only guess how much you must have been hurting… Mon pauvre petit…"_

Francis's features were warped by concern, and at the same time, his eyes were soft. Matthew could see that he truly understood what was going on, that he supported him fully. The emotions that had been building up inside him suddenly exploded from the pressuring lump in his throat into a loud sob. A moment later, Matthew was bawling.

The convulse movements of his ribcage made his ribs grate against each other, sending intense sparks of agony reverberating through Matthew's entire body, and his bruised stomach was protesting with agonized spasm, but he just couldn't stop. All the emotions that had been piling up inside him poured out with the fat tears rolling down his cheeks, the pain for Cuba's beating, his anger at Alfred, the regret for causing pain to his brother, and the utter, absolute sense of failure that permeated his whole being.

It took Matthew some time to realize that Francis's hands were over him, one pressing against his ribcage in a futile attempt to keep him still and breathing shallowly, the other stroking his uninjured cheek.

 _"Matthieu, Matthieu, you have to calm down,"_ Francis was saying, panic seeping through his voice. _"I know that you're scared and hurting, mon petit, but you cannot cry this way, you're too injured, you're not getting enough air…"_

Matthew realized that Francis was right, his vision was blurred by the tears, but it was turning dark at the corners, and the rush of the blood in his ears made Francis's voice sound like it came from far away.

He didn't know how to stop crying, he had no more control of anything, but Francis sounded so scared for him… Matthew had already caused enough troubles, he couldn't go on like that. Slowly, the boy managed to turn down his loud sobs to pathetic sniffles. The roaring in his ears started receding, but the violent outburst had drained Matthew of any energy, he couldn't move a single inch of his body, and the intense pounding in his head was making his stomach churn in complaint.

 _"Oh, Matthieu…"_ Francis exhaled, treading his fingers through the boy's hair.

There was a light shift of the mattress. Matthew raised his head in time to catch a glimpse of Francis contorted features, then a pair of strong, gentle arms enveloped him, pressing his body against Francis's lean chest.

Matthew didn't complain. Too drained to utter a single word, he curled against the young man's familiar weight and buried his head against his shoulder, letting his nostrils be invaded by the smell of cologne and freshly-washed clothes. He kept sniffling against Francis's shoulder as the young man rubbed his back and stroked his hair. Slowly, Matthew's breathing evened out, Francis's soothing gestures lulling him into a drained stupor. Even then, the man didn't talk. He just kept holding the younger nation, offering silent comfort with his mere presence.

 _"I hurt Al,"_ Matthew stated after a while, his voice dull.

Francis's arm tightened around him.

 _"I know, mon coeur. And I know how much you're hurting with him, you sweet soul… but you see, sometimes it's inevitable that we hurt each other, even if we have the best intentions."_

Matthew snuggled deeper into his shoulder, desperately begging for comfort. He didn't deserve it, yet he couldn't bear anything any longer.

 _"But this is why I didn't want to tell Al. I know that he never wanted to hurt me, sometimes he's careless, but he's always so caring, he never has bad intentions… I knew that he would feel awful about this, even if it's not really his fault. This is why I kept it from him. But now he's hurt even worse because I lied, too."_

Matthew was desperately looking for validation, but he found none. While Francis's touch kept being tender and his voice gentle, the stern note was unmistakable.

 _"Oh, mon petit. I see what you did. But I can't lie to you and say it was the right thing to do, mon coeur. I know that you meant the best, but keeping the truth from Alfred isn't going to help him, as you saw, it only got worse when he finally found out. He needed to know this, Matthieu. He needed to learn that his actions have consequences and that he had hurt you. Telling him and blaming him are two different things, mon coeur. You could have told him and then helped him deal with it, that would have been the right thing to do."_

Matthew's lungs were clenched in an icy grip at Francis's words. He had been so sure that Francis would agree with him… but he didn't. He had said exactly the same things as Romano. Could it be that it was because they were actually true? He had seen how hurt Alfred had ended up being…

 _'But he wouldn't be hurt if you hadn't been so pathetic and managed to hide everything like you had planned. He would be none the wiser, and perfectly happy.'_

Not to mention the gross misinterpretation that lay in Francis and Romano's assumption. Matthew desperately wanted to tell him, to explain himself and why he hadn't actually been wrong.

But he couldn't. He knew how much Francis cared for him, how much he wanted him to be happy. And his empathy and gentleness came at the price of a big flaw sometimes: those little, white lies that Matthew could recognize so well, since he often found them spilling from his own lips, too. Francis would lie to him, pretending he deserved some care he actually didn't.

So Matthew simply buried his head against Francis's shoulder and stayed silent, savouring the man's comforting warmth and touch.

* * *

For a moment, Alfred was too stunned to protest at Arthur's sudden gesture, giving the man enough time to drag him away from the room and in another corridor.

"What the fuck, man?!" he snapped then, shrugging off his hold, the previous rage still colouring his words. "The conversation wasn't finished! I need to go back!"

He folded his arms against his chest and squared his shoulders, scowling, but Arthur just glared back at him, apparently unimpressed.

"Go back to what, yelling at Matthew who is already badly injured, in pain and, honestly, simply feeling like shit?" Arthur replied coldly.

The rage building up in his temples, Alfred opened his mouth to reply, ready to use colourful words at Arthur – and suddenly, the man's word sank in. He immediately deflated, his eyes widening, guilt scratching at his insides.

A soft _"Oh"_ seeped through his semi-parted lips. _Alfred_ was the one at fault, how had he ended up yelling at Matthew? Recalling his little brother's lost, panicked expression, his waxen face and widened lilac eyes made his stomach coil on itself.

Arthur's feature softened in understanding.

"Come with me," he said.

While confused, Alfred could do nothing but obey. He felt too drained to protest in any way, his head was spinning as he tried to sort through the memories and emotions. He didn't understand. He felt horrible for what had happened to Matthew, he had never felt like such a lowly scum, and at the same time… he was also so _furious_ at him.

Not a single word was uttered as Arthur led Alfred through the hotel, walking quickly.

Alfred realized where they were headed only when they stopped in front of a room that was at the ground floor, in a completely different wing from the bedrooms, one with a bigger door and an apparently higher ceiling. The boy turned to Arthur, hoping for an explanation of some sort, but the man preceded him.

"This is the staff's gym. Nobody can get inside aside from them... and few notable exceptions, of course. One of them being me."

After the man had passed the card in front of the reader, the door opened promptly.

"Come inside."

Alfred followed him, at loss of what to do. The gym wasn't big, but it looked tidy, with a clean blue tatami covering its floor and some equipment neatly positioned against the white wall.

Alfred shot Arthur a quizzical look.

"Uhm, Artie, what? I like gyms, I really do, but, uhm, this isn't really the right moment."

Arthur cocked an eyebrow.

"You're tired, worried and stressed," he said bluntly, "This is the reason you yelled at Matthew, in spite of being so worried for him. Listen, you and Matthew need to have a good talk – hell, I need to have a good talk with him, as well. We all do. But you need to calm down first, or you'll accomplish nothing but hurting each other over and over."

For how much Alfred would have liked to deny it, he knew that Arthur was right, if his behaviour of a few minutes earlier was any indicator. He felt a bit out of place inside the gym, he was still wearing the suit from the previous day, but in that empty room, there was nobody to enforce a dress code.

"Do your worst," said Arthur.

Alfred didn't answer him, his feet automatically carrying him to the punching bag.

The first moment his knuckles hit the heavy sack, the cool leather against his skin, Alfred felt the tension starting to wear off. He looked with satisfaction at the way the sack swung to a side and prepared himself for a second blow, the rush of adrenaline washing over him like a rejuvenating shower. Not much later, the boy was in full swing, hitting the poor bag with all his strength, the familiar, mechanical motion washing the stress off his tensed shoulders and body.

Alfred didn't even realize when he had started talking, but suddenly, he couldn't stop the words that were pouring out of his mouth.

"…And Jesus, I don't think I've ever felt this guilty in my entire life. It's just... Mattie, you know. He's so sweet and naïve and gentle-hearted that I'm just... always so afraid of people hurting him. I try to keep an eye on him as much as I can because I know that he's strong but he just... doesn't defend himself and man, this is so scary. And in the end, I've hurt him worse than anybody else. You should have seen Cuba's face, that bastard was just... so satisfied. And I wanted to kill him, and I really did, but he did have a point. Why did I never realize anything?! Why?!"

A more violent swing threatened to tear the punching bag off the ceiling, but it resisted.

"And it's Cuba's fault, but I feel so bad about it. Because I never listen to Mattie. I don't mean to, I just... It happens."

Kick, punch, kick. Perspiration had started gathering on Alfred's forehead, the heat was rising. He violently tore off the suit's jacket threw it away, not caring where it would land.

"And at the same time, I'm so, so mad at Mattie because why?! Why doesn't he just talk?! He just... goddamnit I'm not a baby! I can deal with the consequences, and I am his older brother, I just... It almost feels like he doesn't take me seriously, and this just... hurts."

With a corner of his eye, Alfred saw Arthur shift closer to him, but the man said nothing. He just kept looking, a granitic spectator to the events that were unfolding.

"But it probably isn't even that, is it? I know that Mattie actually trusts me, it's just... he doesn't want to hurt me. He doesn't want to hurt anybody, actually, and that's just... it's terrifying, Arthur! He won't look after himself, and one day he's going to get hurt even worse than this, and he's not even going to complain because that's just how he is, he's so sweet and kind and sensitive and just... I'm angry about this, sometimes. I would want to yell at him and shake him until he realizes that he cannot go on like this, the world isn't a field of flower and he needs to stand up for himself!"

The bean the bag was attached to creaked with the power of Alfred's kick, but the nation didn't stop.

"But more than angry, I'm so, so worried. God, I'm so worried that sometimes I cannot even think... and this is when I snap and yell at him, I guess. Dealing with anger is easier than dealing with fear, so I end up being horrible when in truth I'm just terrified."

Alfred suddenly realized that the wetness on his face wasn't just sweat, there were tears streaking his cheeks, and his vision was blurry and out of focus. He still didn't stop – He just couldn't stop.

"And you know what's even worse?! What's worse is that it's my fault. I'm so, so selfish. Like you always tell me. And I hurt him. Every time. I'm supposed to protect him – I _want_ to protect him – and instead, all I do is hurting him! Dismissing him! Over and over! And God, I try! But I. Only. Ruin. Everything!"

With a last powerful kick, the beam creaked in complaint – and then the bag just fell down with a low thud, sprawled uselessly on the ground.

And so did Alfred, utterly exhausted, sobbing loudly. He let gravity take hold of his body and collapsed to his knees, too empty to even try to move.

A moment later, he felt a hand rubbing his back.

"It's all right," Arthur said, his voice so sweet that Alfred felt like a child once again. "It's going to be all right, Alfred. You don't have to place all the blame on yourself, it's not _only_ your fault. Matthew's decisions are his own, and you shouldn't feel guilty about them. And as for your carelessness… well, you have always been a bit like that. And I've been too harsh on you, many times, I know that you mean no harm, your intentions are good. Which doesn't mean that you should just do anything you want, of course, but dwelling on the past won't do anything: you have realized that you were wrong, and _this_ is what truly matters. Now, you can only move forward."

Alfred had no words to express how much Arthur's support meant to him. He turned towards Arthur and hid his head against the young man's shoulder, sobbing even louder. Arthur said nothing, he simply continued holding him, rubbing his back. Like he had done numerous times when Alfred had been a child. Centuries had passed since then, Alfred had grown up, he could take care of himself, yet, abandoning himself to Arthur's care for once just felt _right_ , an enormous weight being lifted from his shoulders.

When he finally calmed down and detached himself from Arthur's arms, Alfred offered him a weak smile.

"Thank you," he muttered.

"Crybaby," replied Arthur, shaking his head, but a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Worry and guilt were still gnawing at Alfred's stomach, but Arthur's exercise had helped him immensely, he was sure that he could face Matthew without losing his temper now. Without need for other words, the two nations gathered themselves and walked the way back to the bedroom.

* * *

Matthew didn't know for how much time he had been held by Francis when he heard the sound of the door opening.

 _"It's all right, mon coeur,"_ Francis murmured, but Matthew almost ignored him.

He immediately straightened up, hissing at the sudden flash of more intense pain in his abdomen, just in time to see Arthur and Alfred walk through the door.

Arthur looked normal, but Alfred's hair was tousled and his suit in disarray. The worst thing, however, was his red and puffy eyes, a clear indication of the fact that Matthew hadn't been the only one dealing with a break-down. In spite of that, Alfred looked more relaxed than he had earlier, and his smile at Matthew, while weak, looked genuine.

"I'm so sorry, Mattie," he said as he crossed the room, the words spilling from his lips even before he had had time to sit on the bed. "I didn't mean to lose my temper before. I didn't mean to yell at you. You know, I was just so worried… you don't take care of yourself nearly as much as you could, you never complain… I'm always worried that I'm going to find you hurt like it just happened. But more importantly, I cannot have words to express how sorry I am that you have been hurt in my place. I… I swear that I'll try to be more careful, in the future. A 'sorry' isn't even close to enough for what happened, but I'll make everything in my power so that this doesn't happen again."

The earnestness in Alfred's voice tugged at Matthew's chest, invading it with warmth.

"A 'sorry' is more than enough," he retorted softly, "You have been forgiven a long time ago, Al. And…" he had to swallow. The next part was going to be more difficult, but Francis's hand on his back gave him strength. "And I'm really sorry, too. I trust you, Al. I just… didn't want to hurt you. I can see how much you care for me, and I know that you would never hurt me intentionally, so I just… thought that lying would be better. I see now that this only made things worse, however. And I am sorry."

Alfred reached out to ruffle his hair.

"You have to tell me when something is wrong, Mattie. We're brothers, we face stuff together. And I promise that I'll listen. And if I don't… make me, Mattie. Don't keep silent."

In spite of the tenderness in Alfred's voice, a lump closed off Matthew's throat. Because Alfred was speaking too softly, guilt was still shining in his eyes. And Matthew couldn't allow that, no matter how badly it was going to end for him.

"But Al, the point is… it's not even your fault. I mean… you know that Cuba mistook me for you, right? You had no way of knowing that, you couldn't have predicted it. And even if you had… it's still my fault, not yours. I-it's not your fault that I'm not recognizable, that people forget about me. That's all on me. If only I had anything recognizable, unique… this wouldn't happen."

Matthew realized with horror that tears had started welling at the corners of his eyes. Worse than that, however, was the silence that enveloped the room, the three sets of horrified eyes glued to Matthew's figure.

The boy almost wanted to hit himself – _of course it was going to upset them, idiot! –_ but on the other hand, talking with a concussion wasn't easy. He should just knock himself out until he was fully healed, at that point. His mind frantically tried to come up with an explanation, something that could make his words look less drastic, but Alfred was quicker.

"Wha— Mattie, what the fuck are you saying?! You… how can you say that you have nothing unique, that this is your fault? You're so nice, so sweet… you always manage to put everybody at ease! Seriously, Matthew… sure, being loud help being noticed, but… you're your own person, why would you need to change? Everybody likes you! Yeah, you're not always at the centre of attention, and so? You're yourself. You're the one everybody thinks about with fondness, I swear that I've never heard a single negative word about you!"

Matthew was taken completely by surprise by Alfred's words. He locked eyes with his brother, unable to hide his confusion.

"…What?"

Matthew knew that Alfred cared for him, but he had been sure that his brother didn't approve of his personality, that he found him too soft. Not even in wildest dreams he would have imagined Alfred saying something like that about him.

"You heard it, Mattie," Alfred answered, ruffling his hair. "I have no idea of where you got this from, but believe me, if people don't remember you it's their loss and not your fault at all, because you're _awesome_. In a different way than I am, of course, but there are a lot of different ways to be awesome! And you cannot let anybody tell you otherwise!"

"Oh…"

Matthew didn't know what to say, the conversation had taken a completely unexpected turn. His mind was muddled with surprise, he moved his eyes to Arthur and Francis, silently begging for their input.

Arthur took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair.

"Alfred is right, Matthew. You don't have to change yourself for others, and anybody not remembering you is nobody's fault but their own, not yours. You don't have to look that surprised…"

"Ah, _mon petit_ , where did everything go wrong?" Francis whispered, stroking his cheek.

Matthew was surprised to see regret written in his features, but he couldn't process it.

"Where did _I_ go wrong," Arthur muttered, the lines on his face tightening. He looked tired. "Matthew I'm… I'm so sorry. I've never told you enough about how amazing you are, have I? I never offered you all the praises you deserved… and this is what I created. I don't think that you understand how much it pains me to see you like this. You should be proud of yourself, you should know that you're worth defending."

Matthew was more and more confused. Alfred wasn't the best judge of character, so his words, while unexpected, could somehow make sense. But Arthur and Francis… they were older than Alfred, more mature. And if they thought that he was worth praising… they could even be right, maybe.

Matthew's head was spinning, he didn't exactly know what to do with the new-found information. He closed his eyes, trying to take the deepest breath he could manage with his injured ribs.

"Mattie?" Alfred asked immediately, ever concerned.

"I'm good. I'm just… it's a lot to take in."

"Of course, _mon petite,_ " Francis retorted in a soothing tone, brushing Matthew's bangs away from his forehead. "Nobody is expecting you to change your way of thinking overnight. But you shouldn't let anybody put you down. Do you promise me that you will at least consider this, the next time something happens?"

Matthew nodded hesitantly, opening his eyes. Francis's suggestion didn't seem bad, actually. The three faces hovering over him relaxed.

For a moment they looked at each other, then the silence was broken by the sudden beeping of Alfred's phone. The nation yelped in surprise, jumping to his feet as he extracted the device from his pocket.

"Oh! It's Germany!" he said as he swept on the screen. "Says that he cannot really do anything to punish Cuba – oh, right, I hadn't told you. He was the one who actually stopped me from basically murdering Cuba."

Matthew felt a pang of gratitude towards Germany – in spite of everything that had happened, the thought of Cuba being hurt was never going to be something pleasant.

"So, yeah, he just gave him a big lecture. While Romano kept swearing at him in Italian and Spanish, ah, I wish I could have seen it… anyway, he says that Cuba seems to really regret what happened. And he's going to lay off the alcohol for a while. So, uh…"

His questioning eyes fell on Matthew.

"Oh, it's all right," the boy answered, "I'm not angry at Cuba, really. I know that he didn't mean to… He's forgiven, as far as I'm concerned."

He was probably going to get a text in the following days, with Cuba offering to buy him ice-cream. And Matthew was perfectly fine with that. For how much the beating had hurt, Cuba recognized his actions, and that was all that mattered.

"I don't like this," declared Arthur, his lips tightened in a thin line of disapproval. "He may look sincere, but if he hurt you other times…"

"Oh, but he has been doing this less and less, really," Matthew offered eagerly, "He's getting better. And he doesn't enjoy beating me up, he always feels horrible when he does… I think that after this, he'll try really hard to control himself."

Nobody aside from Matthew seemed convinced, various degrees of doubt etched on their faces. They didn't say anything, however, probably realizing that it wasn't the right moment, not with Matthew still in pain and so badly injured. The boy was sure that they were all going to have a talk with Cuba, but for the time being, he discovered that he didn't care. On the contrary, the fact that they would do that for him ignited a spark of warmth in his chest.

Matthew closed his eyes, letting the full weight of his body lean against Francis. The man accommodated him, stroking his hair.

The other two immediately went into motion.

"Right! Alfred, he needs an IV!" Matthew could hear Arthur saying, and Alfred answered back something, but his weary and pained body couldn't keep up with them.

And at the same time, it wasn't _bad._ For all the pain he was experiencing, Matthew wasn't alone, but with the people he considered the closest thing he had to a family, who had just proved how much they cared for him. He couldn't have asked for anything better.

 **(word count: 10,329)**

* * *

 **Notes :**

I hope this isn't too bad! I literally stayed up until 7 am to finish writing this, haha, and I had to be at Uni by 9. Fun times.

English isn't my first language, I apologize for any mistake. Feel free to correct me!

On a different note, you may have noticed that I used an ugly 'Romano swore' for the Italian part. I don't know why, but when I went to write that scene I couldn't bring myself to write down on the screen profanities in Italian, it felt way too much (I almost never swear, in general) I mean, I have no problem in English, but in Italian it's just… nope. Funny how it works.

Anyway, I hope that, in spite of everything, you might have enjoyed this. Please comment!


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